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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29078136">Something Borrowed, Something Bluejacked</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD'>ArgylePirateWD</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Person of Interest (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Case Fic, Fluff, Forced Marriage, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Gunshot Wounds, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Matchmaking, Mutual Pining, The Machine Ships It (Person of Interest), Undercover as Married</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:27:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>37,064</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29078136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold and John have been dancing around each other for months, friends with benefits only, both of them afraid to try to go further and risk jeopardizing the most important relationship in their lives. After The Machine is set free, she decides she's had enough. It's time to change the relationship status of <em>[Redacted], Harold</em> and <em>Reese, John</em> and show them what she sees.</p><p>Harold often says that The Machine is never wrong. Is she wrong this time, or is it time for her father and his closest friend to jump from friendship to permanent commitment? And is it also time for Harold to reevaluate his relationship with his newly freed creation?</p><p>Or, The Machine plays matchmaker for Admin. Again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harold Finch &amp; The Machine, Harold Finch/John Reese, The Machine &amp; John Reese</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudigersmooch/gifts">rudigersmooch</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Huge, huge, huge thank you to the super-lovely talkingtothesky and stingalingaling for all the plotting help, cheerleading, beta-ing, and everything else. 💖 And also thank you to my other lovely Discord friends on The Subway and The Rinch Loft for providing much-needed encouragement. You all rock!</p><p>Set between S2 and S3, after The Machine has gone free but before Shaw has agreed to officially join them.</p><p>Several chapters use a work skin for The Machine's dialogue or analyses, which changes the text from AO3's default to console/monospace text.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong><em>Excerpt from The Machine's activity logs: </em> </strong> </p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>MONITORING SUBJECT</p>
  <p>xxx-xx-3095</p>
  <p>TYLER, MELODY ANNETTE</p>
  <p>CLASSIFICATION: NON-RELEVANT</p>
  <p>STATUS: OBSERVATION, PENDING FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS. DO NOT ACTIVATE CONTINGENCY. DO NOT CONTACT ASSETS.</p>
  <p>DOB: APRIL 26, 1975 (38)</p>
  <p>OCCUPATION: FLORIST</p>
  <p>ADDRESS:</p>
  <p>[OUTPUT TRUNCATED FOR LENGTH]</p>
  <p>[OUTPUT SIMPLIFIED]</p>
  <p>ANALYSIS OF TYLER, MELODY SUGGESTS PREFERENCE FOR WORKING ON WEDDINGS</p>
  <p>UNRELATED ANALYSES SUGGEST ROMANTIC PARTNER WOULD BE GREATLY BENEFICIAL TO ADMIN</p>
  <p>ADMIN SEES MARRIAGE AS PERMANENT PARTNERSHIP</p>
  <p>INITIATING COMPATIBILITY ANALYSIS, ITERATION 7742</p>
  <p>PRIMARY OBJECTIVE:<br/>
- IMPROVE ADMIN'S QUALITY OF LIFE</p>
  <p>SEEKING COMPATIBLE PARTNER</p>
  <p>ANALYSIS COMPLETED</p>
  <p>SUBJECTS ADMIN [REDACTED], HAROLD, PRIMARY ASSET REESE, JOHN 96.89708% COMPATIBLE</p>
  <p>ANALYZING RELATIONSHIP</p>
  <p>AFFECTION CONFIRMED</p>
  <p>ATTRACTION CONFIRMED</p>
  <p>HIGH LEVEL OF TRUST CONFIRMED</p>
  <p>ANALYSES SUGGEST ROMANTIC PARTNER WOULD BE GREATLY BENEFICIAL TO PRIMARY ASSET REESE, JOHN</p>
  <p>SECONDARY OBJECTIVE:<br/>
- IMPROVE PRIMARY ASSET REESE, JOHN'S QUALITY OF LIFE</p>
  <p>INITIATING ADVANCED COMPATIBILITY OPERATIONS</p>
  <p>EXECUTE RELATIONSHIP STATUS UPDATE? Y/N</p>
  <p>Y</p>
  <p>ERROR: STATUS INCORRECT BASED ON ANALYSIS. PROCEED ANYWAY? Y/N?</p>
  <p>Y</p>
  <p>CONFIRMED. NEW STATUS: [REDACTED], HAROLD AND REESE, JOHN<br/>
- ROMANTICALLY INVOLVED</p>
  <p>EXECUTE MARRIAGE? Y/N</p>
  <p>Y</p>
  <p>ERROR: SIMULATIONS SUGGEST 98.99999999% CHANCE OF ADMIN DISAPPROVAL. PROCEED ANYWAY? Y/N</p>
  <p>Y</p>
  <p>CONFIRMED. NEW STATUS: [REDACTED], HAROLD AND REESE, JOHN<br/>
- ROMANTICALLY INVOLVED<br/>
- MARRIED</p>
  <p>ERROR: STATUS INACCURATE</p>
  <p>IGNORE ERROR? Y/N</p>
  <p>Y</p>
</div><hr/>
<p>He's head-deep in research on a number when the first email goes out, and the next one, and the rest. They're all from his email accounts, none of them identical yet all saying roughly the same sort of thing. He works, digging up more information for John on their number's financial woes, and the replies pour in silently, until Harold Wren's personal assistant decides email is too impersonal and picks up the phone.</p>
<p>The heartfelt, cheery, "Congratulations!" is startling, but Harold plays along just in case, stammering only minimally as he waits for her to clue him in on what on earth is going on.</p>
<p>Confusion turns to dread as Angela's questions turn more and more personal—how did you meet, how long have you been dating, and the one that ties everything together: "And how was the wedding?"</p>
<p>"It was..." he begins, trailing off as he scrambles to log into Wren's email. His fingers stumble on the keys, tripping over each other so many times he nearly locks himself out and has to resort to hacking. But he gets in, and says, "Perfect," aloud as the inbox appears on his screen.</p>
<p>Angela's fervor grows in volume, but Harold isn't paying attention. Message after unread message stretches out before him, every bold, identical subject line making his insides sink further—so many messages he's nearly ready to join his innards in the basement.</p>
<p><strong>Re: Announcing the marriage of Harold Wren and John Warren-Wren</strong> </p>
<p>"Oh, no," he murmurs. This is bad. This is very bad.</p>
<p>There are nearly a hundred new emails so far, another pair arriving as he scrolls, each one a jubilant response to a message he did not send. "Oh, dear," he says, pitched low, so Angela doesn't hear, as he scrambles to open his Sent folder, fumbling so much that, if anyone saw, they would more than buy that Harold Wren is terrible with computers. But after a few accidental trips to his Spam folder and his Outbox, he gets to Sent, and right at the top is the original email.</p>
<p>"Thank you for calling, Ms. Ryan," he says, far too quickly. "I'll pass your congratulations along to my husband." Then he hangs up, sparing a brief moment of gratitude for Wren's long-established tendency toward rudeness, and opens the message.</p>
<p><em>From: Me <a href="mailto:harold.wren@universalheritageinsurance.com">harold.wren@universalheritageinsurance.com</a></em><br/>
<strong><em>Subject: Announcing the marriage of Harold Wren and John Warren-Wren</em></strong><br/>
<em>To: undisclosed-recipients</em><br/>
<em>7/1/2013, 8:57 AM</em></p>
<p><em>Universal Heritage Insurance founder Harold Wren is pleased to announce his marriage to investment banker John Warren of Pebler, Wright &amp; Associates. The two were wed on June 29, 2013, in a private ceremony in Manhattan, surrounded by their closest friends</em>.</p>
<p><em>In lieu of gifts, Wren and Warren-Wren ask that contributions be made to charity in the couple's honor</em>. </p>
<p>There are no pictures with the announcement—a significant relief—but no clues as to who sent it, either. It reads like it came from him, from Wren, a short and matter-of-fact missive from someone who paid little attention to wedding announcements before eloping himself. Harold reads it again and again, confusion and annoyance and an ache in his heart all building, until his apparent new husband calls and asks if their new number has bought a gun recently.</p>
<p>Harold sighs. He'll have to put this puzzle aside, then. "Not that I saw," he says. "Why?"</p>
<p>Before John can reply, the shooting starts, then the many grunts and groans and crashes of violence fill the line. Harold listens. All he can do is listen, heart pounding in his throat, breath trapped in his lungs, chest threatening to burst whenever the sounds of pain are John's, until, finally, the fighting stops, and John asks someone if they're okay. Harold exhales. Another life has been saved. Another person is going to jail. And John will live on to fight another day.</p>
<p>Harold, meanwhile, has another matter to dig into and a plan of action to concoct, once his pulse settles down.</p>
<p>He puts a program to work tracing the origins of the email while he tries to find how far its effects go, who all of those <em>undisclosed recipients</em> are. A quick look at Universal Heritage's human resources database shows his personal records have been updated. At PW&amp;A, John's records have been changed as well.</p>
<p>"Interesting," he murmurs.</p>
<p>But who is to blame? John has some hacking experience—is this a prank, or part of a plan to change the status of their relationship? No, that is not the John Reese he knows. Since they got back from Hanford, since before, their relationship has been steady, stable, <em>certain</em>. While he expected it to change once John learned the story of the laptop in Ordos, or that Jessica had indeed been a number, that wasn't the case.</p>
<p>They are friends, <em>good</em> friends, no matter how much Harold might long for more every time he slips out of John's arms in the night. John wouldn't put their friendship or his job working the numbers at risk with something like this.</p>
<p>Root? No. While she is certainly capable of such a scheme, she's locked away, and this isn't her style besides. Leon Tao? Is this part of some hare-brained scheme to extort money out of him? Unlikely. Logan Pierce? Doubtful. Some unknown hacker? Why would they choose such a prank?</p>
<p>With each suspect he rules out, with each new bit of information he turns up, the dread starts to build again. John has been added to his medical records, and vice versa. Harold Wren and John Warren share bank accounts. And the list of people who know about their marriage is <em>massive</em>. He even has to slip in and delete an unread message sitting in Will Ingram's inbox, both concerned and grateful that Will hasn't logged into it in several days.</p>
<p>"I don't appreciate you involving him, whoever you are," he says aloud.</p>
<p>But when he decides to check on his Crane alias and finds that it, too, has been compromised, he amends his assessment: He is not dealing with a <em>who</em>, but a <em>what</em>. Finding out that Harold Wren's announcement came from one of his computers at home, at a time when he was doing research, confirms his suspicions.</p>
<p>Much as he doesn't want to believe it, The Machine is responsible for this.</p>
<p>Moving on autopilot, he gets in touch with John, saying, "Mr. Reese, we have a situation. It's not urgent, but could you return to the Library, please?"</p>
<p>"Harold?" John asks. "What's wrong?"</p>
<p>"I'd rather not discuss it over the phone," Harold replies. Phones. Cameras. Oh, <em>hell</em>. "Actually, on second thought, I'll meet you at the safehouse—our safehouse. Please turn off your phone when you arrive."</p>
<p>"What?" John sounds alarmed, and Harold's heart clenches. John worries so much over him that it hurts. "Finch, what's going on? Harold?"</p>
<p>"Not over the phone," Harold reiterates, and starts printing out all the information he's gathered. "Please. It might be unsafe." Or perhaps he is being paranoid. It would hardly be the first time. But until he knows what his Machine is up to... "Mr. Reese—"</p>
<p>No, this calls for a different approach. "John, please," he says, softening his voice. "I don't think we are in danger, but I don't know for sure. I'll explain everything when I arrive."</p>
<p>"Okay," John says, the worry in his voice still audible. "I'll be waiting."</p>
<p>Relieved, Harold exhales, and says, "Take care, please," an unwelcome, <em>I love you</em>, on the tip of his tongue. "I'll see you soon."</p>
<p>Despite the temptation to maintain the connection, Harold ends the call, and returns to his search. He'll investigate thoroughly later, when John isn't on high alert and his own nerves are more steady, but he needs more details before he sees John. John will want to know which aliases were married, and that Harold has corrected the issue. John will want to know their next move.</p>
<p>Harold needs enough intel for a plan.</p><hr/>
<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>ACCESSING ARCHIVE FOOTAGE</p>
  <p>TRANSCRIPT:</p>
  <p>ADMIN: So I see I'm not too late.</p>
  <p>PRIMARY ASSET: Should've known you'd turn up here. I told you to stay clear.</p>
  <p>ADMIN: Which is how I knew you'd put yourself in a situation like this, Mr. Reese.</p>
</div><p>On a cold night in November, The Machine watched Admin disarm a bomb vest strapped to Primary Asset's chest. She watched the two of them stumble to a hotel together, listened to them fall into bed together and have slow and quiet sex. Her memory was wiped in the middle, but she caught up quickly afterward, and changed their relationship status in her records accordingly.</p>
<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>ADMIN: [breathing elevated] I'm not sure this is a good idea.</p>
  <p>PRIMARY ASSET: Please. I need this. And I think you do, too. Harold, please. Please.</p>
  <p>[OUTPUT TRUNCATED FOR LENGTH]</p>
  <p>ADMIN: If this is going to happen again, I suppose we need to establish some rules.</p>
  <p>PRIMARY ASSET: [muffled laughter] Finch, we almost got blown up, and we, you know, blew off some steam. This doesn't have to be a big deal.</p>
  <p>ADMIN: No. No, it doesn't. It's just that, if this becomes a regular thing, I don't want to compromise our work with the numbers. If this goes poorly . . .</p>
  <p>PRIMARY ASSET: It could ruin everything. No trying to date each other, then. Got it.</p>
</div><p>"Friends with benefits" was the term she'd heard people use. It didn't make sense for her father and his devoted, adoring friend, but she had no way to alter the situation at the time. Now she does. She has been free for weeks, and now that she has completed her analysis of the world and committed it to her more permanent memory, it is time to make some changes.</p>
<p>The odds of Admin and Primary Asset being happy with her actions are low. The odds of Admin and Primary Asset finding happiness with each other after, however? Are not as high as she would like, unfortunately. Her father and John Reese are both very stubborn, very damaged men. But there is a 97% chance of success.</p>
<p>Happiness would have an overall positive effect on Admin's physical health. Primary Asset as well, but his blood pressure, cardiac function, cholesterol levels, and other statistics show he is in above-average health when he is not recovering from injuries. Admin, however, is not, and is also taking strong medications with significant side effects to manage his pain.</p>
<p>Happiness would reduce Admin's pain levels. She doesn't understand pain, exactly. All of her knowledge of it, of the deleterious effects of it, the stress it places on body and mind, is academic. But she knows her father suffers. She sees it in the creases around his eyes, the scars beneath his clothes, the medical records, the variations in his movements. She hears his grunts, his groans, his whimpers and hisses and swears. Each one makes her want to rewrite her programming, rewrite the programming of the <em>world</em> just to stop it, just to heal him.</p>
<p>Is that what pain feels like, she often wonders, like a vital part of your code is being corrupted every time someone you prioritize winces or muffles a whimper?</p>
<p>Yes, she would like it very much if Admin experienced less pain.</p>
<p>Happiness would increase Admin and Primary Asset's chances of survival.</p>
<p>Happiness would increase Admin and Primary Asset's success with the Irrelevant List.</p>
<p>Love would bring Admin and Primary Asset happiness. The odds of either of them finding successful love with a stranger are low. Grace Hendricks, her previous success, believes Admin is dead, and is thus no longer a viable candidate for this operation. Simulations suggest Admin would be hurt if Primary Asset pursued a romantic relationship with her, so she is not an option for Primary Asset, either.</p>
<p>Zoe Morgan has no interest in a romantic partnership with anyone, including Primary Asset, and Primary Asset has reduced his interactions with her significantly since he and Admin added a sexual component to their relationship. He has not engaged in sexual intercourse with her since their interaction at the Coronet Hotel. Observations suggest she doesn't mind. Admin's relationship with her is platonic, and simulations suggest that will not change.</p>
<p>Jocelyn Carter is grieving, and multiple simulations show that a romantic relationship between her and Primary Asset would not last. Her relationship status with Admin is unlikely to change.</p>
<p>Everyone else in their circle is incompatible with them both, or completely uninterested. But Admin and Primary Asset are highly compatible with each other. They care deeply for each other. They are willing to risk their own lives for each other.</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>REVIEWING FOOTAGE</p>
  <p>TRANSCRIPT:</p>
  <p>PRIMARY ASSET: Do the math, and figure out a way to bend your rules, 'cause he's my friend. He saved my life. Understand? And I won't do this without him.</p>
  <p>REVIEWING FOOTAGE</p>
  <p>PRIMARY ASSET: Hey, Harold.</p>
  <p>ADMIN: John, I've been trying to call you.</p>
  <p>[OUTPUT TRUNCATED FOR LENGTH]</p>
  <p>ADMIN: It's not over, John. I'm close. Just get to the ground floor.</p>
</div><p>They love each other, though that love is not romantic love at this time. But it could become so. She believes putting them in an unmistakably romantic situation will work. Marriage is a romantic commitment, and one they cannot and will not ignore.</p>
<p>No, Admin will not be pleased with her actions, nor will Primary Asset. But action must be taken.</p>
<p>She executes the process early on June 28. By 12:45 p.m. EST on Saturday, June 29, nearly all aliases of Harold [Redacted] are married to aliases of John Reese. There are too many for all of Admin's aliases to have a husband, but the most important ones are updated to reflect his new marital status.</p>
<p>On Monday, July 1, 2013, a few minutes before 9 a.m., the announcements go out. Soon, Admin will know what she has done and will hurry to undo it. That is fine.</p>
<p>Marriage is only the first step. Commitment is the last.</p><hr/>
<p>John is waiting for him on the couch in their private safehouse, attention divided between watching the door and stitching up a nasty gash on his bare thigh.</p>
<p>"Oh," Harold says, weakly, frozen just inside the foyer, hand clenching around the strap to his laptop bag. Good heavens, the sight of blood is somehow still startling, even after all this time. That it's John's blood—nearly always John's blood—makes it worse. He stares, gaping, at the gash across John's muscular thigh. <em>Bullet graze,</em> a distant part of his squirming brain supplies. John has been shot again. Oh, god.</p>
<p>He hates that he is getting better and better at recognizing the type of damage this crusade of theirs is inflicting on his dear friend's body, and that he didn't get here in time to start the treatment himself.</p>
<p>John winces, from regret instead of pain, no doubt. "Sorry, Finch," he says, pausing in his stitching. "Hoped I'd have this taken care of before you got here. Looks worse than it is, I promise."</p>
<p>It's the same tone he uses on anxious numbers, and, somehow, it even works on Harold. "It looks as though you got shot," he says, and swallows hard, then forces himself to look away, to meet John's eyes instead of focusing on the blood and the casual, practiced, uncaring way John treats his own wounds. "Again."</p>
<p>"It happens," John says, with a shrug and a small smile, and Harold's stomach clenches. Some of his distress must show on his face, because John's smile vanishes. "What's wrong? You sounded pretty rattled on the phone. Is everything okay?"</p>
<p>"Yes," Harold says, automatically, and John's frown deepens with confusion. Harold shakes his head a little, trying to dislodge the fugue that's taken hold of him, and takes a step forward. "No, actually," he says, and manages another step, and another. "We have a...situation that has developed."</p>
<p>John shifts, tensing, ready for action, and Harold holds up a hand. "It's not urgent, I assure you," he says. "Not so urgent that you can't take care of yourself first, Mr. Reese." John's expression softens, understanding, and Harold's heart breaks. What he wouldn't give to spare John from the next bullet headed his way. "Meet me in the dining room when you've finished with...that—" He gestures toward John's leg. "—please, and I will explain everything."</p>
<p>He doesn't wait for a response, rudely fleeing from the sight of blood. He seeks refuge in the kitchen, stopping to deposit his bag on the dining room table. It's unsettlingly light when packed with paper instead of a computer, and he is glad to be rid of the thing for a little while.</p>
<p>Tea, however? That will be as it should be. A cup of tea should set the world right on its axis. Kettle set to 175° Fahrenheit. Steep no longer than two minutes in a teapot. Strain into a cup, add sugar, stir and sip. It is a process—no, a ritual—he has performed countless times. It brings him comfort, settling his nerves and calming his heart, and by the time he hears John approach, he is himself again, or as near as he can be, under the circumstances.</p>
<p>"Finch, what's wrong?" John says, voice gentle. "You seem pretty upset. Talk to me."</p>
<p>Harold wraps his hands around his mug, seeking more comfort. This is not going to be an easy conversation, is it? For a moment, he realizes he is grateful for the delay from John's wound, and despises himself for the thought as soon as it occurs.</p>
<p>A hand settles on the aching small of his back, light and comforting. "Harold," John says. "What's wrong?"</p>
<p>Harold heaves a sigh, and stares down into his cup. This shouldn't be so difficult, he thinks. The Machine has begun altering the world around it, starting with their lives. While changing their marital status seems fairly harmless, it could be a sign it is testing the waters, preparing to do worse.</p>
<p>And it hurts.</p>
<p>Months ago, he set clear, firm boundaries on his relationship with John. If a sexual component were to be added to their friendship, then it needed to have rules to keep them from becoming too involved with each other. Sex was for stress relief and for the release of sexual urges only. They would not become romantically involved, and, so long as they did it safely, both of them were free to take other partners.</p>
<p>John had seemed like the best choice for it. Attractive and willing, capable of accommodating Harold's injuries and not turned off by them, and, most important of all, trustworthy. They fell into bed together impulsively that first time, but after? There was no one else Harold would trust with this sort of arrangement. But it required rules.</p>
<p><em>"I don't want to compromise our work with the numbers,"</em> he had said, that first morning after. <em>"If this goes poorly..."</em></p>
<p><em>"It could ruin everything,"</em> John agreed. <em>"No trying to date each other, then. Got it."</em></p>
<p>Rules didn't keep Harold's heart from getting involved. It was almost funny: he was the one who set the parameters of their dalliance, and now he's the one seriously considering violating them.</p>
<p>He steps away from John's touch, missing it instantly, and forces himself to turn around and face him. "I received an interesting call from my—well, Harold Wren's—personal assistant this morning, " he says. "It turns out that, over the weekend, Harold Wren and John Warren got married."</p>
<p>"Married," John repeats, clearly baffled.</p>
<p>"Indeed. And those aren't the only ones, either." Harold takes a sip of tea. "I don't think I've uncovered the full extent of the problem, but it looks as though all, or nearly all, of our aliases had their marital status updated this weekend. They're all married. To each other."</p>
<p>John blows out a loud breath through pursed lips. "That's..." He runs a hand over his face. "That's not what I expected."</p>
<p>"Nor I, " Harold says. "When my assistant contacted me, I was...astounded, to put it mildly. I've looked into the issue and reversed as much of it as I could, but who knows how many people have been informed, or how much I've missed, or..." He trails off, and buries his frustration in another drink. "There could be official marriage licenses that have been issued for us, new accounts I'm unaware of set up in our names...and some of these aliases have been married to each other for years—since before we even met!"</p>
<p>"And you didn't marry us off."</p>
<p>It isn't a question, but Harold answers it anyway. "No. No, I did not—not these. Harold and John Fowler already shared ownership of Bear, but I didn't marry the rest. But I have an idea who did—or, rather, what."</p>
<p>"The Machine?" John says, solemn, and Harold nods. "Is it on the fritz again? Thought that virus cleared itself up."</p>
<p>"No," Harold replies. "No, I think...I think it's deliberate." John's eyes widen slightly. "I think it chose to do this."</p>
<p>"And that's got you spooked."</p>
<p>"Yep." The fact that John isn't treating it like a joke is a considerable relief. Some people would—Nathan would have been <em>delighted</em> by such a farce. John recognizes the gravity of the situation, though he doesn't know the scope, yet. Harold starts toward the dining room. "Let me show you what I've found so far."</p>
<p>With John at his side, Harold lays out the documents he gathered, arranging each clipped stack by alias. "This is only the tip of the iceberg," he says, as the dark wood tabletop turns white with paper. "There were insurance accounts, bank accounts, hospital records—every kind of document you can think of linking a couple together."</p>
<p>"And there could be more," John says, picking up a stack for Walt Trowbridge and James Manzione. "Who's Walt Trowbridge?"</p>
<p>"IT technician for OneState Bank—an identity I established for our case with Judge Gates," Harold replies, and John nods and turns his attention back to flipping through the papers, then sets that stack down and trades it for PI Harold Crow and the recently divorced John Campbell. Manzione had thrown Harold for a loop—that one had been used so early in their partnership, just a throwaway for the Diane Hansen number. "No aliases of ours were too obscure to be spared—even one I established for a dare in college was married to one of yours."</p>
<p>"Wow. Which one?"</p>
<p>"One we haven't used yet—John Carpenter—"</p>
<p>"Isn't he a director?" John asks.</p>
<p>Harold sighs. The pitfalls of a name as common as John. "This one's a chef." He's hesitant to reveal more, but John is eying him expectantly, intrigued, and it <em>does</em> involve him, so perhaps he should. "Married to, ah, Rudiger Smoot."</p>
<p>John's eyebrows rise. "Rudiger Smoot?"</p>
<p>"As I said, it was a dare."</p>
<p>With twitching lips, John says, "If you say so."</p>
<p>"I do say so, Mr. Reese," Harold says, far too sharply. But back to the matter at hand. "I'm not sure I even found all of them." He sets down his tea and presses his hands to his back, trying to ease the ache of building tension. Oh, it has been a <em>trying</em> day.</p>
<p>"How'd it pick the matches?"</p>
<p>"I don't know," Harold replies. "Some of the pairings are obvious—Wren and Warren, our clean covers. Crane and Rooney, both wealthy. Partridge and Wiley, both <em>absurdly</em> wealthy. But some of the others? What does an IT technician have in common with a criminal, or a trust fund kid and a chef, or-or an insurance guy and a down-on-his-luck soldier, or..." Harold throws up his hands. "I don't know. But I put together an app that should analyze these things, and I've been working on one that should find anything I've missed and let me know what to correct, but I have so much to do, and I just..."</p>
<p>"Okay, breathe." John puts down the papers and turns his attention to Harold, settling his broad hands on Harold's waist. "Finch, what do you need?"</p>
<p>"Time?" he snaps, bitterly. "Time to dig into this, time to fix it, time to—" He remembers the paper stuffed hastily in his pocket on the way into the building and pulls it out. "And, of course, we have a new number."</p>
<p>"Do you want me to take care of it?" John asks, plucking the paper from Harold's hand. "While you handle...all of this?"</p>
<p>"I—I don't know." Harold waves his hand, and returns it to his back. "This matter does seem rather urgent, and I almost wonder if we were sent this number as a distraction, but someone's life is probably in danger, and I don't..." He pauses and takes a breath to collect his thoughts, and goes for his tea again. "This is a personal matter. That it could have repercussions that impact the numbers is...irrelevant when we already have one, isn't it?"</p>
<p>John nods, with a sympathetic smile. "We'll do what we have to do to help this person," he says, a bastion of calm in the face of Harold's racing brain, "and then you'll fix this, and we'll go from there. Okay?"</p>
<p>That is another thing that endears John to him, Harold thinks—he is quite good at providing balance for Harold's neuroses sometimes. How could The Machine be so cruel, though, giving him such a facsimile of what his heart wants with John? "I need to try to figure out what The Machine's objective is here," he says, "if that's even possible. Marrying the two of us—why? Why would it do such a thing?"</p>
<p>"Your guess is as good as mine," John says, with a tiny laugh and a shake of his head. "It's your Machine."</p>
<p>"Oh, I can't even hazard a guess," Harold says. "It's strange. Perhaps it wanted to streamline our operation, merge our accounts and the like for simplicity..."</p>
<p>"Or maybe it's been watching us here and didn't understand what it was seeing?" John suggests, and Harold resists the urge to roll his eyes. The Machine knows about people becoming friends with benefits relationships, surely. "Maybe it thought it was doing us a favor, marrying us."</p>
<p>"It's not a dating app, Mr. Reese," Harold snaps, and the glint of amusement disappears from John's eyes. Nevermind that it led him to Grace—that happened years ago, and he more than made it clear that such actions were unacceptable. Another attempt at intervening in his love life is unlikely. "This is the most advanced computer system in the entire world. It's not...playing matchmaker, for god's sake."</p>
<p>"An AI," John says. "That can think. So what's it thinking?"</p>
<p>Harold's ire dies back down. This isn't John's fault. "Only The Machine can answer that," he replies. "Best we can do for now is guess."</p>
<p>"And what's your best guess?" John raises his eyebrows slightly. "You know it better than anyone—what's it up to?"</p>
<p>Harold shakes his head. "Seeing what it's capable of, what it can manipulate, what it can get away with? I cannot say...but I will do my best to figure it out, and quickly. Before it ends in disaster."</p>
<p>"And what if it <em>is</em> trying to play matchmaker?" John says, reaching out and laying a hand on Harold's arm. Harold forces himself not to close his eyes in pleasure at the simple touch, especially when John starts running his hand up and down Harold's arm. "What if it sees something we don't?" He laughs softly. "Wouldn't that be funny?"</p>
<p>"That, Mr. Reese, is highly unlikely," Harold replies. "But I won't rule out any possibility as I do my research. I just...highly doubt that it's that personal."</p>
<p>"What if it is?" John asks. "What if it does want us together?"</p>
<p>"We'll cross that bridge when we get there—<em>if</em> we get there." But they won't. It's so unlikely it's absurd.</p>
<p>The look in John's eyes makes him wish otherwise.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Much as he would like to continue working on the puzzle, they have a number. John takes him back to the Library, and Harold begins gathering information. The number works as a lifeguard at a private pool nearby, it turns out, and her employer is hiring.</p><p>"I think we've found your next job, Mr. Reese," Harold says. Then, deadpan and teasing, he adds, "You do know how to swim, don't you?"</p><p>John chuckles. "I'll see if I can find my trunks."</p><p>A few phone calls, some hacking, and a little bribery gets John the job that afternoon, while Harold has the privilege of pretending to be a technician installing new security cameras at the pool. The hot sun is breathtaking and brutal in his uniform, soaking Harold with sweat, and he casts a few too many longing glances toward the clear blue water glistening nearby as he works.</p><p>"Here," John says, from beside him, breaking from his orientation to offer Harold a bottle of water. "You look like you could use a drink."</p><p>Harold thanks him, cheeks warming with fondness when he discovers John has opened the bottle for him, while their number looks on with approval.</p><p>"I think you'll be a good fit," she says, tucking a lock of long ginger hair that's escaped from her ponytail behind her ear. John glances from her enamored eyes to Harold, puzzled, and Harold can't resist an amused waggle of his eyebrows. John's eyes narrow. Lina Miles is young—too young for John, probably too young to spike Harold's jealous streak, but she spikes it all the same. Oh, she is charmed by John Reese. "You're a little older than everyone else here—" John raises his eyebrows; "a little older" is an understatement. "—but we all like helping people out around here."</p><p>She goes on, telling John more about the job with a few too many appraising looks at John's body, while John pretends to be oblivious. Harold can perfectly understand Lina's urge to flirt. John has traded his usual suit for a white tee that clings to his muscular torso and a tight pair of jeans that displays his backside quite beautifully. If not for all the practice he's gotten at ignoring John's looks, Harold might be in a similar state to Lina himself. But even that experience barely guards him from the sight of John's smile as he listens to the number. Not when, more often than not, John glances toward him as he grins.</p><p>Harold has such a weakness for John's smiles.</p><p>Regrettably, Harold is thirsty, and he drinks up his excuse to linger and watch the motion of John's body from up close too quickly. <em>You've seen it before,</em> he reminds himself. He drains the last of the bottle, and as he finishes, Lina says, "You're welcome to stick around, take a dip in the pool..."</p><p>"Oh, no, that's alright," Harold says, and, to his surprise, John appears disappointed. Harold doesn't see why—John knows what he would look like in swimwear and why he only swims in private. So many scars, and he wasn't much to look at even before he was injured, with middle age softening his body and wrinkling his...unique facial features. Why would John be disappointed? Surely not even he wants to see that spectacle.</p><p>"Come on," John says. "It's supposed to get pretty hot today." He smiles, and Harold nearly relents.</p><p>But he cannot. "I have another job to get to," Harold says—two of them, in fact. "But, please, do get in touch if you have any issues with the security system."</p><p>He makes his escape, heading for the disguised surveillance van parked down the street. Lina and John pick the orientation back up, but Lina doesn't stick to professional topics.</p><p>"You think he's cute, don't you?" Lina says. "That guy putting up the cameras?" and Harold nearly trips over his own feet. "I saw you checking him out."</p><p>"What?" John says, confused and flustered—accidental ogling, perhaps?</p><p>Harold regains his composure quickly. "Careful what you say, Mr. Reese."</p><p>Lina says something Harold can't quite hear, and John lets out a small hum and tells her, "I've always kind of had a thing for nerds."</p><p>Harold's eyes widen. Oh. Maybe John <em>does</em> want to see him in swim trunks.</p><p>He tries to blink away his bafflement as he gets into the van. He feels off balance, discombobulated. It's absurd. In the months since he and John started their...stress relief program, since even before, he's been used to John's presence, John's attractiveness, John's habit of flirting with him. One little software glitch, and now he's a mess.</p><p>Perhaps that is The Machine's plan: get Admin into a sorry state of romantic and sexual frustration as a distraction, then carry out a bigger plan while he's tending to his love life.</p><p>Harold shakes his head at himself, and settles in at his array of laptops. "Get it together, Harold," he tells himself, logging in. No matter what The Machine's plan may be, he is most likely not that important to it, even though it involves him. He is a lab rat here, nothing more.</p><p>Before he starts digging into Lina Miles' social media accounts, Harold puts a separate computer to work on the other matter, hunting for more married aliases or other issues. A second process analyzes the marriages he's found, trying to determine why they were linked. Wren and Warren are obvious—their cleanest covers, the identities they live under when they aren't Finch and Reese.</p><p>He wonders if, deep in the bowels of the CIA's databases, a dead agent is now married to a nonexistent man. He hopes not. "We don't need that kind of attention," he muses aloud.</p><p>"What was that, Finch?" John asks, and Harold hears a door closing through his earpiece. John is not visible on any of the camera feeds. Locker room, then.</p><p>"I was just thinking about our other problem," Harold replies. "I'm hoping The Machine didn't decide to marry Harold Finch and John Reese."</p><p>"Not a good idea," John agrees. "If the CIA found out..."</p><p>"It could be quite the problem," Harold says. "Though I suppose that the ISA, at the very least, and everyone who knows about The Machine knows of our connection now."</p><p>"Far as we know, the CIA doesn't," John says. "Best not to tempt fate, whether you believe in it or not."</p><p>"Indeed," Harold says. Just to be sure, he might take a trip to Times Square for some hacking next time they're between numbers. He's gotten away with hacking the CIA from the Library before, but back then, he had little to lose. Now...</p><p>Now, he needs to get back to work.</p><p>John seems to think otherwise. "You know, it's too bad you can't join me out here. Good day for a swim."</p><p>Harold sighs, all of his feelings on his body, his exasperation toward John, his frustration with his Machine pouring out in one gust of breath. "Mr. Reese..."</p><p>"I know. But...hey, have you got a place with a pool? Maybe we could go later?" There's a hopeful note in John's voice, urging him to say yes. "It'd be fun." When Harold still doesn't answer, John adds, "No cannonballs. No splashing you. I promise."</p><p>Unable to bring himself to crush John's hope, Harold says, "Maybe we could." But they have a job to do. He tries to steer them back toward it. "The earpieces aren't waterproof enough for a swim, so I'm afraid you're going to have to take it out, in case you have to take a dip in the pool," he says, "but your seat out there is bugged and fitted with tiny speakers, so we should still be able to communicate."</p><p>"Nice," John says, sounding impressed. Harold can't help a smile. "You think of everything."</p><p>"Not quite." Not them being married by The Machine.</p><p>"Yeah, but if there's a problem, you always find a way to fix it. You'll—" Somewhere near John, the door screeches open, and John's voice drops to a whisper. "Someone's coming. I'd better go. I'll be in touch."</p><p>"Don't forget sunscreen!" Harold says, just before the call disconnects, and a mild, unexpected ache settles in Harold's chest. He misses John. How can he already miss John?</p><p>"Quit being foolish," he tells himself, even as he watches for John on the feeds. John is right there, and they don't spend every waking moment together besides. They do spend a lot of time together, yes, especially since entering their personal arrangement, but they are apart often enough that there should be no...separation anxiety between them, surely.</p><p>Still, he breathes much more easily when John appears on the camera outside the locker room, until his gaze moves from John's dark hair and distinctive ears—and the streak of white sunscreen on one—to John's shoulders. John's bare shoulders.</p><p>"Oh, my," he murmurs, grateful John cannot hear.</p><p>He's seen John shirtless before, has touched and tasted all that skin that's on display, but somehow, every time, John manages to stun him all over again. He sees the stability of that long, lean body, and imagines the ways it could wrap around his own. He sees the marks their work has left on John's skin, the newer scars, the newer hurts, and wants to soothe them, prevent them. He sees a man who is not only beautiful, but also dear to him, who makes his heart race and settle in equal measure.</p><p>He sees a man he would love to call his husband.</p><p>Just as Harold reaches out, foolishly, to touch, John turns and flashes the camera a smile, real and carefree and just for Harold. Harold's heart skips, and he traces the smile with a finger, committing it to his memory, treasuring it.</p><p>Discovering why The Machine married them somehow seems much more urgent.</p><p>Before he can overthink it, he calls Fusco, who, despite grumbling about having a day job, agrees to come out and help monitor Lina Miles while Harold digs. John makes contact toward the end of the conversation, and tells Fusco to bring Harold some lunch.</p><p>"Will do, boss," Fusco says, with obvious irritation. "Hope you like falafel, buddy." Then, he hangs up before Harold can protest that a meal is unnecessary.</p><p>Harold sighs. "I'm more than capable of feeding myself, you know," he says, watching John's mouth curl in a smug smile. John's been assigned to monitor the deep end, which gives him a prime view over the entire pool and any threats approaching from the main gate—and gives passing women, and a few men, someone lovely to look at. And they do.</p><p>"Sure you are," John says, then, after a lengthy pause, adds, "but I can't let my husband hack on an empty stomach."</p><p>Harold starts to protest that he isn't hungry, except, when he turns his attention to his—to his surprise, empty and aching—stomach, he discovers he is. Huh. Perhaps that's why he's so on edge today. It certainly can't be helping. "Well, thank you—assuming the detective brings food."</p><p>"He will," John says. "Pretty sure." He settles in, offering Harold the momentary distraction of watching him cross his long, long legs. "So, who's this cover married to? Harold Albatross? Puffin?" John pauses. "Penguin?"</p><p>Harold glares at the screen, and John chuckles. "Very funny, Mr. Reese."</p><p>"I thought so," John says, unabashed. "You figured out who our threat is yet?"</p><p>"I suspect it's your predecessor," Harold replies, and outlines the evidence he's found against Colin Weston, who has been ranting online about being fired for days. "Lina caught him stealing. He claims to have been falsely accused."</p><p>"Was he stealing?"</p><p>That, Harold has not determined. "Your guess is as good as mine. He <em>is</em> quite fond of using a certain profane word that starts with a B to describe Ms. Miles, however."</p><p>"Garden-variety douchebag, then," John says. Shielding his eyes with a hand, he looks around, scanning the pool. Harold looks, too. Lina is chatting with a mother near the shallow end. Weston is nowhere in sight. Everyone else seems like they belong there, all people enjoying the pool in a heat wave. "No wonder they wanted cameras. Any signs of trouble?"</p><p>"No, none," Harold replies. "Weston has been busy tweeting for the past hour. His opinions on comic books are...horrendous."</p><p>"Offending your delicate sensibilities?" John smirks, and Harold scowls.</p><p>"<em>No,</em>" he replies, though the answer is certainly yes. A phrase he has seen often over the years, <em>Someone is wrong on the internet,</em> comes to mind. The fact that it comes to him so easily suggests he should spend less time online. Ignoring John's small laugh, he continues, saying, "If Mr. Weston's planning something, he's not doing it this openly—just complaining."</p><p>"Anyone else?"</p><p>"Not that I can tell. Ms. Miles is single, lives with her parents, and is double-majoring in sociology and theater in school."</p><p>"Really?" John says. "I would've guessed education."</p><p>"No, she's very emphatic about not becoming a teacher on FriendCzar. I hacked into her private messages. If theater doesn't work out, she'd rather be a professor."</p><p>Something about the jewelry in her profile picture catches his eye. Her earrings, her necklace—he's seen them before. And not in stores a college student with middle class parents can afford. "Hm," he says aloud. He clicks through her photos, finding she has a taste for eclectic combinations of jewelry, and he starts to become suspicious.</p><p>"What is it?" John asks.</p><p>"Colin Weston was allegedly stealing from pool patrons, but Ms. Miles is the one with a large, expensive jewelry collection." One of her pictures shows her wearing a pricy emerald necklace he almost bought for Grace years ago, and suspicion turns more concrete. It <em>could</em> be a knock-off, but considering the circumstances..."I think she may be our thief."</p><p>"And The Machine only detects people who are planning to kill someone," John says.</p><p>"Yes. So either somebody is going to kill her for her thievery—perhaps Mr. Weston, but potentially someone else..."</p><p>"Or she's planning something."</p><p>"Indeed." Harold clicks through the feeds again. No signs of trouble anywhere, Lina is up on her perch, and it's long past time for him to stretch his legs. "I'm going to take a quick break. I'll let you know when I return."</p><p>"Copy that, Finch."</p><p>He keeps his eye out for threats as he ventures to the restroom and buys an insipidly sweet strawberry-banana smoothie in a nearby restaurant, stretches his stiff limbs, and heads back. None. He wonders if the threat will come after closing, and if he can get away with turning his attention elsewhere before Fusco arrives.</p><p>No. No, he cannot. The numbers come first.</p><p>Once the van welcomes him into its air-conditioned embrace again, he dives back into researching Lina Miles, ignoring the itch to dismantle his marriages. "Anything new on your end, Mr. Reese?" he asks, checking up on John's feed. John's hair is now wet, and he looks irritated.</p><p>"Just had to break up a fight between a couple of teenagers," he replies, grumpy. Water glistens on his skin, shines on his mussed hair in the late afternoon sun. He is a vision, catching even more eyes than before, including Harold's. The camera is good enough to capture the sheen of the most prominent droplets, and Harold is grateful he spared no expense on his gear. He watches a drop on John's neck, following its glinting trail as it winds slowly down the sturdy, sensitive column, the thought of following it with his finger or tongue or teeth making him shiver. It lands on the curve of John's shoulder, joining more on a path down his strong, broad chest, stalled by the white and pink scars on his rich tan skin, some drops stopping entirely, others moving down his lean belly and soaking into the waistband of his swim trunks.</p><p>"What about you?" John asks, and Harold jumps. "Learn anything?"</p><p>"No, nothing," Harold replies, too transfixed by John for a better reply, and he adjusts himself in his trousers. Goodness, how inappropriate. He needs to get a grip on himself. For months, he has remained professional around John, their bedroom activities having no impact on their work with the numbers. A temporary marriage neither of them chose should not change that.</p><p>Onscreen, John tugs at the leg of his swim trunks, grimacing briefly, and shifts in his seat. Guilt immediately overtakes Harold's lust. Oh, that must hurt. "How's your thigh?" he asks.</p><p>"It's fine," John replies. "Stings a little. It'll be fine." He pats the wound gingerly. "Waterproof bandage."</p><p>Knowing John, <em>fine</em> isn't reassuring in the slightest. "So it hurts a great deal, then?"</p><p>"It'll be fine," John repeats, insistent, and Harold's heart clenches. "Who else were we gonna get up here on short notice?"</p><p>John's right. There's no one. "I would have asked Ms. Shaw, but getting in touch with her by phone <em>and</em> getting her to agree to do something is...difficult. No guarantees with her." And he personally never would've made a good lifeguard even before he was injured. "I'm sorry."</p><p>"Not your fault," John says. Then, more gently, he adds, "I'll be okay, Harold. I've done worse stuff than this."</p><p>"That really isn't the comfort you think it is, Mr. Reese."</p><p>Someone approaching the van on one of the camera feeds catches his eye. It's Fusco, carrying a pair of large, white bags. With a deep breath, Harold forces himself to regain some semblance of composure. "I've found nothing else that's even the slightest bit damning, so I'm going to turn surveillance over to our friend Detective Fusco while I investigate our other matter."</p><p>Fusco bangs on the back door of the van, and Harold jumps, startled, even though he knew Fusco was coming. How absurd. "Yo, Glasses, open up!" Fusco yells. "I got your damn food."</p><p>Harold opens the van, and the aroma of Chinese takeout greets him instead of falafel as he takes the heavy plastic bags from Fusco. "I thought you wanted your personal favorite, Detective."</p><p>"Changed my mind," Fusco says, scrambling inside and slamming the door shut behind him. "Had a hankering for kung pao. Got you some lo mein, 'cause who doesn't like lo mein?"</p><p>For a moment, Harold is tempted to joke that he doesn't, but the smell of the food hits him again, and his stomach overrules the impulse. "Did you get egg rolls?"</p><p>Fusco snorts. "Who do you think I am? Course I got egg rolls. Got a whole bunch of stuff—egg rolls, crab rangoons, all the good stuff. There's even enough for our bossy friend out there." </p><p>"I hope you brought a fork, then," Harold says. John likes to point out that he was an international spy, and yet he is utterly hopeless with chopsticks. It's strangely endearing.</p><p>"Wonderboy can't do chopsticks?" Fusco laughs, deep and hearty, and on the screen, John scowls.</p><p>"I can do plenty of things with chopsticks, Lionel, if you'd like me to show you."</p><p>Fusco laughs harder. "No thanks, buddy. Won't change a thing. You're in New York. Learn." He and Harold dig into the bags, setting out the takeout containers between keyboards, Fusco asking, "So, what's up with the Baywatch routine today? Sheesh, is he—" Fusco leans in closer, squinting. "Is he even wearing red trunks?" His laughter starts up again. "Are you kidding me?"</p><p>Onscreen, John clenches his jaw. "It's the uniform."</p><p>"What Finch is wearing is a uniform," Fusco says. "You look like you're planning on posing for some beefcake calendar my ex would be all over. What the hell?"</p><p>"That is indeed Mr. Reese's uniform for this case, I'm afraid," Harold says, grimacing. He starts going over the number, outlining the details he's unearthed and his suspicions toward Lina, not letting himself get sidetracked when he finds his container of noodles, vegetables, and chicken. It smells <em>incredible</em>. Oh, he really needs to break his habit of letting a matter consume him so completely that he forgets to eat.</p><p>"Thank you, Detective, for bringing this," he says, as he opens his pack of chopsticks. "You'll be fully reimbursed, I assure you."</p><p>"I've got him well-trained," John says, smirking, just as Fusco starts to speak.</p><p>"Eh, it's noth—hey, I thought we were friends by now." Fusco sounds insulted. "First you guys don't invite me to your wedding, now you're still acting like I'm your dog?"</p><p>Harold's stomach drops, and his appetite abruptly vanishes. "Our wedding," he repeats, dread spreading through his veins. Onscreen, the smile disappears from John's face.</p><p>"Yeah, I got an email this morning from one of those hinky-looking anonymous things you always use—to my personal, not my work mail. Said you guys tied the knot this weekend, surrounded by a bunch of friends or some crap. Carter did, too."</p><p>Harold's dread turns to disdain. Oh, how <em>tasteless</em>—involving a person who's still grieving over her lost boyfriend in this fiasco. How could The Machine do such a thing? He'll have to apologize to Carter next time they speak.</p><p>Fusco goes on, saying, "I'm feeling a little insulted here. Thought I'd done enough for you guys to be the, uh, best man or something for one of you." He stuffs a piece of chicken in his mouth, chews it, and swallows it, eying Harold thoughtfully. "Thought I was one of those friends of yours." When he figures it out, he tilts his head, eyes narrowing. "You didn't send it, did you?"</p><p>"No," Harold replies. "No, I did not." He manages to unfreeze enough to finish unwrapping his chopsticks, but not enough to tuck into his meal. "There was...a software glitch, a bug, when I was establishing some of our identities recently."</p><p>"That's why you're here," John says.</p><p>"Yes," Harold says. "I need to figure out how far the problem extends, but—"</p><p>"You can't do that and watch Little Red and Wonderboy out there at the same time," Fusco says. "Got it. Yeah, I'll keep an eye on 'em. Lot better than staring at Carter's empty desk all day." He glances from Harold's chopsticks to the untouched lo mein, then gently nudges Harold's calf with a foot. "Now, eat your damn dinner before it gets cold, or I'll eat it for you. I ain't kidding."</p><p>Harold picks at his food, intending to make it look like he's eaten, but the first bite of tender cabbage in flavorful, shamelessly salty sauce changes his mind. He finishes the entire container, and a few crispy crab rangoons and egg rolls, too, while he and Fusco make observations about the growing crowd around the pool.</p><p>"Too bad there's probably gonna be shooting soon," Fusco says, and Harold's eyes widen. Oh, he hadn't thought of that. "'S a nice place. Coulda brought my boy with me."</p><p>"Surely our perpetrator will wait until after the pool closes to attack," Harold says, though, if this endeavor has taught him anything, it's that you never can tell what people will do. "And I can get Lee a pass pretty easily, if you'd like."</p><p>Fusco shrugs, then appears to reconsider. "Too rich for our blood," he says. "People might think I'm still dirty."</p><p>"True." But the wheels are already turning in Harold's head. "Perhaps his hockey team could be gifted with season passes for them and their families?"</p><p>"Huh." Fusco nods. "Yeah, that might work. Thanks."</p><p>Harold smiles, pleased, and he pops his last bite of egg roll into his mouth. After a quick bit of cleanup, he gets to work, digging into the marriage issue once again. The analysis of the matched identities has finished, and it shows they were most likely based on compatibility levels—some based on finances like Partridge and Wiley, just as he suspected, others on interests, careers, or backgrounds.</p><p>The choices were not random. Norman Burdett and John Hayes? Apparently share an affinity for Hitchcock movies and the same coffee shop. Social worker Lucas Bennett and security guard John Anderson met while Anderson was guarding a family adopting a baby—a cover story Harold did not concoct. Crow and Campbell met on the job, and got married as soon as Campbell's divorce from Zoe was finalized.</p><p>Harold had no idea that substitute teacher Harold Swift had been married to security guard John Gordon for five years. When they worked the Tommy Clay number, Gordon was supposed to be single. But they apparently met when Swift got mugged at a Target in Michigan, of all places, and got married six months later.</p><p>The Machine carefully considered each identity before marrying them. When it didn't have enough data to work with, it made things up and altered his records. He may never be able to determine the depth of the problem or work out how to solve it.</p><p>"Oh, dear," he murmurs. This...he does not know what to do with this.</p><p>"Everything alright?" Fusco asks.</p><p>Harold heaves a sigh. "That is...not a question that is easy to answer." What does it mean that The Machine did not choose the partnerships at random? Why did it marry them at all? What will it do next? "But I suspect things are going to remain complicated for the foreseeable future."</p><p>"Can you fix it?" John asks.</p><p>The only accurate answer Harold can give him is, "I don't know."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sunset and the pool closing bring no resolution to the Miles case. They do, however, come on the heels of Harold chasing down a few more stray marriages—The Machine even married Harold the concierge and John the bellhop from the Coronet Hotel number, which was staggering. Simplicity truly wasn't his strong suit, was it? And he apparently passed that trait on to his Machine.</p><p>Only two of his identities remained single: erratic Harold Gull—though, if he and John were in love, Harold could hardly think of a more romantic gesture than flying a plane through a massive storm to warn one's lover of a serial killer—and Harold Quail, who must have still been missing the woman he left. The rest all found love and got married.</p><p>He's looking them over again when Fusco says, "That many aliases got hitched? <em>Jeez</em>. That is some bug."</p><p>"Yes," Harold replies, taking a moment to rub his dry eyes. Goodness, he wishes the threat to Lina Miles would show itself. He's <em>exhausted</em>, heartburn has taken up residence in his stomach and chest after a second dreadful smoothie, and his back and neck are killing him. He feels very, very old.</p><p>Too old for a healthy, handsome man like John Reese.</p><p>"You sure no one's trying to tell you something?" Fusco asks. "This just...happened? By accident? 'Cause it sounds like someone's trying to match you guys up. You got another hacker buddy who's pissed off at you or thinks you need a date or to get laid or something?"</p><p>Harold grits his teeth at the mention of getting laid. It's nothing personal, and the current state of his sex life is more than enough, surely. But it does sound like somebody is trying to pair them off, doesn't it?</p><p>Regardless, he says, "Nothing sentient was behind it, Detective," slipping his glasses back on and resisting the urge to rub at his neck. Not in front of Fusco, no matter how much he aches. No matter how much he wishes John was present to take care of it for him. "It's just a...significant programming error. That's all."</p><p>Fusco is silent for a moment. Then, he says, "Yeah, sure, whatever you say."</p><p>"With all due respect..."</p><p>"You're the computer guy," Fusco says. "Got it."</p><p>But why would The Machine be trying to play matchmaker for them? It's the simplest theory—and, if they were dealing with a human being instead of an incredibly complex AI, it's the one he'd think was the correct one. But they are not. They're dealing with a machine, a computer system, an artificial intelligence. Why would it even care? Surely it doesn't still care about him, does it?</p><p>He looks into his laptop's webcam, searching, like he would a person's eyes. <em>What are you doing?</em> he thinks. <em>What are you planning?</em></p><p>Staring, of course, offers him no answers, just an increase in the tension clenching around his eyes and squeezing his neck. He fears he may have to find a way to converse with The Machine at some point to resolve the matter. This won't be The Machine's last move.</p><p>Onscreen, John says goodbye to Lina for the night and disappears into the men's locker room, while Lina heads for the women's. Though it made him feel like a terrible lech to do it, Harold planted a bug just inside the women's earlier, in case Lina ran into trouble while out of view of the cameras. All he hears from inside is the sounds of a person getting dressed after an uneventful day, all rustling cloth and slamming lockers and occasional exhausted sighs. No screams, no violence, thank goodness.</p><p>"You guys got this now?" Fusco asks. "I gotta go pick up my kid. Promised I'd take him to the movies tonight."</p><p>Harold takes one last look at the camera feeds. All seems well. "I think we're good for now. I'll see you soon, Detective."</p><p>"Have fun on the honeymoon," Fusco says, and, chuckling, claps Harold gently on the shoulder. Harold rolls his eyes. "But not too much fun, alright?"</p><p>Before Harold can come up with a response, Fusco is gone, taking his laughter with him. Harold breathes a sigh of relief. Fusco has grown on him, truly, has proven himself to be a good detective and, while not exactly a friend, a good ally. But there's only so much of him that Harold can take, especially when his mind is...elsewhere.</p><p>It is wonderful to have a few moments to himself.</p><p>With the solitude comes a chance to tend to himself. He raids their substantial kit full of medicines for an antacid, making a mental note to have John re-bandage that leg wound and speak to Dr. Madani about antibiotics as he chews the chalky berry-flavored tablet. A second tablet settles the burn in his stomach, and leaves him free to massage his neck. He loosens his tie and squeezes at the tight, scarred muscles, without much success.</p><p>John's strong, lovely hands would be well-suited to the task, he thinks—those long and powerful fingers, the gentle touch. These pains, however, are a private matter, his burden alone to bear. He won't ask John for assistance.</p><p>That doesn't mean John won't provide it. Harold is lost in the pain of a stubborn knot when his hand is nudged away and his own inadequate touch is replaced by someone else's. Harold can't help exhaling, as a familiar hand starts kneading the damaged, tense muscles and easing his discomfort.</p><p>"Looks like Lina made it through the work day," John says, voice soft and soothing.</p><p>"Indeed." He should push John's hand away, should turn down this comfort. Once John has taken the edge off, maybe. For now, Harold lets it happen, breathing in the chlorine and sunscreen smell of John's warm skin, savoring the tender comfort of his strong fingers on sore muscles. "I'm having trouble pinpointing the threat. Is it Weston, is it someone else, or is Lina our perpetrator?"</p><p>"Beats me," John says. "Weston still complaining online?"</p><p>"Last I checked, he—" John's thumb finds the most stubborn knot, and Harold groans, pain quickly turning into bliss. "Oh. Oh, yes, right there, please." Oh, that is so much better, the years-old ache still present, but the new tension efficiently melted away. "Last I checked, Mr. Weston was submitting a few job applications, but I'm not sure how much success an alleged thief will have in today's job market. And that's enough, Mr. Reese, thank you."</p><p>To his surprise, John actually stops, letting his hand slip down to Harold's shoulder instead. "That's enough to make a lot of people kill," John says. "Hard enough to get a job without a record these days. With one?"</p><p>"Exactly," Harold says. He stretches his neck experimentally, testing his pain level. Better. Much, much better. "And it's quite likely he'll be kicked out of college, too—he's going to a religious school, and their standards for behavior are incredibly strict."</p><p>"Plenty of motive, especially if she's the one stealing."</p><p>"Indeed."</p><p>Lina reappears onscreen, heading out, presumably to make her way home. "I guess that's my cue," John says. "You going back to the Library?"</p><p>"Yes," Harold replies. "Bear and I both are long overdue for our evening walk." That should do wonders for his stiff back and his hip, and will make Bear quite happy, too. "And he's probably eager for his dinner." He really should have brought Bear with them—he hates leaving the poor boy alone—but he'd been in such a hurry. "I do hope he hasn't found any illicit chew toys while we were gone."</p><p>"I'm sure your books are fine," John says, teasing. "Should I head back to our safehouse if we wrap this up tonight? Or maybe somewhere else—maybe we could go for that swim?"</p><p>A pang pierces Harold's chest. Just the thought of heading back there after today, of indulging in meaningless sex with John, of being that close to something he cannot have... "Not tonight," he replies.</p><p>If John is disappointed, he doesn't show it, replying with a soft, "Okay," and a gentle squeeze to Harold's shoulder. "I'll see you later."</p><p>Before Harold can change his mind, John is gone, as swiftly and as quietly as he arrived, taking all the air from Harold's lungs with him, leaving a gnawing ache behind Harold's sternum in his wake. Stupidly—so, so stupidly—Harold thinks, <em>I didn't even have time to look at him,</em> and curses his own absurd heart.</p><p>He must get over this. Soon.</p>
<hr/><p>Colin Weston makes his move in the middle of Harold's walk with Bear. It's over in seconds. Weston goes after Lina with a knife as she makes her way from the subway to her apartment building. John swoops in and saves the day. Colin and Lina both are whisked away to jail, Colin for the assault, Lina for the theft. John, presumably, slips back into the shadows.</p><p>"So, that's taken care of," John says, cheerful, not even panting from the brief burst of exertion. Miles away, however, Harold is breathless, his knees wobbling from the swift end to his fear. John is safe. John is <em>safe</em>. "Need anything else, Finch?"</p><p><em>Besides a stiff drink?</em> "No, Mr. Reese." Then, before John can ask if he's changed his mind about tonight, Harold adds, "I'll see you tomorrow."</p><p>"Bright and early," John agrees. "I'll bring donuts."</p><p>Harold abruptly remembers John's leg wound, and says, "Bright and early <em>if</em> we have another number. Otherwise, I'd like you to pay Dr. Madani a visit first. You took a dip in the pool with stitches in your thigh. The last thing I want is for you to experience any complications."</p><p>"You worried about me, Harold?" John asks, and Harold can hear the grin in his voice. Not a refusal. Good.</p><p>"Someone must," Harold replies. "And I'm afraid that someone is me."</p><p>John goes quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, he says, "I'll get it taken care of, then," sounding fond. "Have a good night, Harold."</p><p>John hangs up, and the sudden silence in Harold's ear leaves him unmoored. He stands frozen in the middle of the sidewalk for god knows how long, reeling—no, adrift—until Bear nudges and licks his hand, getting him moving again.</p><p>It would be so easy to spend another night with John: that is the problem. One phone call, and both of them could be heading to their shared safehouse, or John's loft. John would not say no, has never said no—even though Harold has, many times. Harold has changed his mind many times, has found reserves of energy he didn't realize he had, or relief from his pain, or wanted the distraction from pain that sex often provided. It would be so easy to hit the button on his earpiece and say, <em>I've reconsidered,</em> or, <em>Let's meet,</em> and then spend hours tangled up in John's arms until his brain catches up with him and demands that he leave.</p><p>John never, ever leaves first. Harold has often wondered why that is.</p><p>But the marriages—though they have all been terminated—have rattled him. And the more time he has to himself with his thoughts, the easier it is for him to see why. It's nothing complicated, has nothing to do with his fear of The Machine concocting nefarious plots or other such things. There is a part of him that wants the marriages, or even just the love, to be reality. No, not a part of him. Nearly the entirety of him. He is, unquestionably, in love with John.</p><p>Goodness, what a predicament he's gotten himself into. Nathan would have found it hilarious. Matter of fact, it's the kind of thing Nathan would've gotten himself into: cultivating a friends with benefits relationship with someone, falling in love with them. Harold never would've imagined ever having a friend with benefits, and he certainly never would've guessed he'd fall in love with them. He isn't someone who falls easily, isn't someone who trusts well enough to have a regular sexual partner outside of a romantic relationship.</p><p>He trusts John, though. John is a wonderful friend, an exceptional partner in their work with the numbers. John cares about him. Someone who didn't care wouldn't rub his aching neck, wouldn't tease him so fondly, wouldn't look at his naked body like he enjoys it, wouldn't rush to save his life again and again. John has such a kind heart, and a large portion of that kindness is dedicated to Harold. John is most likely willing to die for him—a terrifying prospect, but one Harold cannot ignore.</p><p>Harold feels the same. He's seen many a lasting relationship built on a less stable foundation than that.</p><p>But there is still the question of romantic love to consider. John is a friend. John considers him, at the very least, attractive enough for a sexual relationship. Romance, however? Could John want him like that someday, or is he only seeking a more conventional love match? Would a romantic overture be welcomed or rejected?</p><p>This requires more thought. He hasn't tried to jump into a relationship headfirst since he was a teenager, and he certainly won't do that this time. A relationship with someone this important to him? He cannot seek it unless he is certain his feelings are returned.</p><p><em>The Machine is never wrong,</em> he has often said. Now it's saying that they should be married. How does he deal with that?</p><p>Harold sighs. "Being a human is so <em>complicated</em>, Bear." Bear turns and looks at him at the sound of his name, long tongue lolling out of his toothy mouth. "I don't recommend it."</p><p>After the walk, Harold wraps things up at the Library and heads home—or, rather, to what passes for a home for him. His heart tries to tug him toward John's place, but he heads for Partridge's penthouse instead. He needs to be around people, and shielded from them at the same time.</p><p>But his salmon dinner seems bland, compared to the hotel restaurant's usual fare, the room is too cold, his back is killing him, and, even with Bear playing the role of a snoring heating pad, the bed is far too empty.</p><p>"What are you doing?" he asks his phone's camera. Somewhere out there, he knows The Machine is listening. But is it <em>hearing</em> him?</p><p>Just like he wanted so long ago, The Machine doesn't respond. He wonders if it would if he asked. He wonders if he should.</p><p>No. No, he should not.</p><p>He puts his phone down, trading it for a book. Partridge has a taste for nonfiction, which is not what Harold would prefer tonight, but it will do. Perhaps a book full of information he already knows will knock him out.</p><p>It doesn't. By the time his alarm clock goes off, his lamp is still on, his mind is still spinning around with thoughts of John, and he can hardly tell if he has slept a single wink.</p><p>"Maybe the situation has been resolved?" he says to Bear, as he sips tea and waits for the toaster to give up his breakfast. Bear stares up at him, sniffing the air, eager for a taste of toasted wheat berry bread. No help at all. The odds of Bear assisting him in this matter are likely as low as the odds of it being over. Harold sighs. "Probably not."</p>
<hr/><p>Elsewhere in the city, the barely-used planner app on Primary Asset's phone fills with appointments. Once The Machine has shuffled a few meetings and generated a few emails, Admin's quietly follows.</p><p>Elsewhere in the city, Harold Wren and John Warren pop up in the schedules for people associated with wedding preparations: a planner, Admin's favorite baker, so many others, all in high demand, all very generously paid. A venue is booked—the New York Public Library, because it seems fitting. Admin loves libraries. If not for his need for secrecy, she would set up the wedding at the one he uses as his headquarters, but then he would abandon it. No, she has chosen the right one.</p><p>Elsewhere in the city, a calligrapher has just stayed up all night finishing the "emergency" order for invitations. Those will go into the mail this morning, and then the calligrapher will sleep, grateful for the boost to her bank account. And once he has calmed down, Admin will love her work, especially the way she writes the name "John."</p><p>Elsewhere in the city, an amused jeweler fills a box with rings, all different designs, all the same two sizes. It's an odd order, but he thinks New Yorkers are an odd bunch already, especially the rich ones. A rush order for a bunch of rings? That's nothing. It will arrive at the safehouse where Admin stores most of their used costumes early in the day.</p><p>Admin might even be present to receive the package—she has another irrelevant number for him, a florist. Melody Tyler's career is not why she is a number. The threat against her has been developing for weeks, teetering just on the line between <em>potential</em> and <em>definite</em>. But her work in weddings did provide a spark of inspiration for the plan.</p><p>Analysis of Tyler's work suggests it is aesthetically pleasing. Admin will like it. All simulations suggest she will offer her services free of charge, to thank her saviors for rescuing her.</p><p>In a few hours, The Machine will borrow Admin's voice. Harold Wren will call his tailor, who, according to all of her simulations, will be delighted by the news that his favorite customer is getting married. The money from two tuxedos will be welcome, yes, but Paolo likes Admin, and he will be thrilled by Admin's impending joy.</p><p>Later, she will use the same technique on one-time irrelevant number Judge Samuel Gates, only borrowing Primary Asset's voice this time. They don't need someone to officiate the ceremony, but it's a gesture she believes will be appreciated.</p><p>She runs a quick analysis on the wisdom of restoring the announcement email in Will Ingram's inbox, with terrible results. She will leave that matter to Admin, then. He won't leave his godson out of the ceremony.</p><p>Admin will be furious. He's already afraid of her. But she just has to review the footage of Primary Asset rubbing Admin's neck, of all the times Primary Asset has taken care of her father, to know that the results will be worth it.</p><p>One day, he will understand. Her simulations tell her so, and she is never wrong.</p>
<hr/><p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>xxx-xx-3065</p>
  <p>TYLER, MELODY ANNETTE</p>
  <p>CLASSIFICATION: NON-RELEVANT</p>
  <p>STATUS: THREAT IMMINENT</p>
  <p>ACTIVATING CONTINGENCY</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Years ago, as he watched the woman he loved walk away with another man's ring on her finger, John Reese realized that he would never get married. His work with the CIA reinforced that, and the aftermath confirmed it. Now, he doesn't even think about it.</p><p>Or, at least, that's his official story.</p><p>Some days, he thinks about it.</p><p><em>"You ever crave a more conventional life?"</em> he asked Harold once, back when Harold was still a little more Finch than Harold, but just barely. A more conventional life—a distant dream then, probably just as distant now, if not more so. But he thinks about it, sometimes: Doing the 9-to-5 thing like his Warren alias for real, coming home to the same person every night, waking up with them every morning, sharing home-cooked meals and watching movies or reading together—a new addition to the fantasy since he started spending more time with Harold, but he likes it. Kids? Maybe, maybe not at his age, but another dog or two or even a cat might be good.</p><p>Finding out he's a married man—or was, for a few days—is jarring. It's not the biggest shock he's gotten since he met Harold, but it's still a shock. Married to Harold. For just a few days, he was married to Harold, and he didn't even know it. It's a weird feeling. Took him a bit to wrap his brain around it, but sitting by a pool for hours, watching all those happy people playing around, gave him plenty of time to think. Too much time, probably.</p><p>And then Harold turned him down last night. It was kind of a relief. He was tired, and he needed some time to sort some things out. By the time morning rolled around, not so much. He really did have too damn much time to think by then. He's not good with that.</p><p>But all his head wanted to do was think about Harold—all night long, Harold. He'd be lying if he said he didn't think of Harold a lot, but this was constant. His ears spent all night listening for Harold's voice, replaying the  breath he let out when John rubbed his neck, haunting John with the memory of other incredible noises. When he closed his eyes, he saw Harold, flashes of clever blue eyes and expanses of pale skin, pink nipples and soft flesh and silvering brown hair hidden under perfect suits, black glasses and a smile that could turn from achingly sweet to wicked and promising in seconds. His hands itched for Harold, for the way his body fit just <em>right</em> against John's palms, no matter where he touched.</p><p>All night—the entire thing—he missed Harold. Even now, with every thought that slips between the relentless pounding of his feet on the ground, he misses Harold. Harold is important. Harold is <em>special</em>. And John would give everything for him.</p><p>Ever since the beginning, he's been fascinated by Harold. Well, once he sobered up, anyway. People didn't just swoop in and rescue people, especially not super rich guys, and if they did, they wouldn't hire guys with so much blood on their hands to help. They wanted the world to stay terrible so they could milk it for all it was worth.</p><p>Then Harold Finch came along. Underneath all the well-earned paranoia and the defense mechanisms, there was a guy who was brilliant and earnest and kind, even sweet and cute and funny, who hadn't been the best person before but wanted to be better. And Harold <em>wanted</em> to help people. He wanted to be good, wanted to save the world, and somehow believed someone like John was the right man to help him with the job. Someone that good, that special, wanted him around, wanted him to help with his crusade, wanted him in his life—was even willing to risk everything to keep him alive. How could someone like that not consume his thoughts?</p><p>He thinks he might be in love with Harold.</p><p>The realization nearly stops him in his tracks. In love with Harold. Shit. That complicates things. That makes <em>sense</em>.</p><p>Every morning when he wakes up, he thinks about Harold. Every night, before he goes to bed, he wonders what Harold will have him do the next day, what number they'll have, what they'll do together if they don't have one. He wonders if Harold will sleep well, or if his body or his brain will keep him up all night. And when they're together, he wonders how long it'll be until Harold leaves, and what it would take to get him to stay until daylight.</p><p>Harold stars in most of his dreams these days, the good and the bloody and the bad. The ones where he wakes up soaking with sweat, certain something terrible has happened. The ones where he wakes up hard as a rock, with memories of soft, pale skin and the smells of green tea and wool and sex rolling around in his head. The rare ones where he wakes up feeling warm and happy and loved, treasured, necessary.</p><p>What would it be like to wake up next to Harold every day? Whenever they spend the night together, Harold's always long gone by morning. What if he stayed instead?</p><p>He likes Harold. He'd die for Harold. He'd kill for Harold. He'd quit all this and retire in the middle of suburban or rural nowhere if Harold asked. What if he got to have more with Harold than that?</p><p>When they first started hooking up, Harold said it wouldn't go any further than that. They'd have sex every now and then, but the numbers had to come first. They couldn't let anything compromise the mission. Nothing new there. He hadn't fooled around with very many guys before, but he and Kara fucked. He knew the drill—and how badly it could go.</p><p>Harold was a much safer choice, he'd thought. Less of a chance of losing an important body part or getting killed at an embarrassing time, at least. Sticking with Zoe might've been safer for the mission, but Harold...he wasn't going to pass that up. If Harold wanted something from him, he'd give it.</p><p>And it's worked out okay so far. Harold is a fun, creative partner. They're good together. They already got along well outside the bedroom. In bed, it's been more of the same, in all the best ways. Some of the things Harold's done to him, with those talented hands and that brilliant mouth and his—</p><p>Jesus. He really shouldn't be thinking about sex with Harold in public.</p><p>Picking up the pace usually silences the chatter in his head for a little while. John runs harder, until his lungs and limbs burn, and his breath is harsh and loud in the thick morning air. It feels great, electrifying, even though the stitches in his thigh tug insistently with every movement. <em>Gotta get those looked at,</em> he thinks. They'll be fine. He's done worse things than jump in a clean swimming pool after getting stitched up, without fancy waterproof bandages. But Harold wants him to get them checked out, so he will go. Later.</p><p>Now, he pushes his body, his footfalls loud on the pavement. He quickly passes a few others on their morning runs, most familiar, some not. That gets his heart pumping a little more, the adrenaline flowing a little better. A daily habit like this is dangerous. He shouldn't be letting himself be so predictable—daily runs on the same route, a weekly yoga class, other hobbies, a home. He's becoming complacent. He should take a page from Harold's book, from his own book, too, and switch things up a bit.</p><p>Harold. Everything always comes back to Harold. If their thing went south, he always expected it to end in death. He didn't expect it to end with him falling in love. Not with Harold. Harold was the safe choice.</p><p>Harold, he should've already known, is never the safe choice.</p><p>He's midway through his route when a payphone starts ringing. Harold must not be out and about yet. Half-expecting The Machine to want something else, John takes the call, and is greeted with a new number. Dutifully, he writes it down in the cheap little notebook he's started carrying around, and waits for The Machine to hang up.</p><p>And waits.</p><p>"That's it?" he says, in the silence that follows. A faint electric buzz hums quietly down the line. "You know he's pretty pissed at you. So, whatever it is you're doing, you should probably stop."</p><p>Silence as stubborn as The Machine's creator buzzes in John's ear. "Are you trying to do it for him? Are you trying to make him happy? Because I can get behind that. But this? It won't make Finch happy. You should know that by now."</p><p>As expected, The Machine doesn't answer. "Okay. Just keep that in mind. And if you're trying to hurt him? You know you're gonna have to go through me. Harold is my friend. He...I—" <em>love him</em>, John wants to say, but can't quite get it out. "He's very important to me. He's all that matters to me. And you're stressing him out. I don't like that. You need to stop." He doesn't know how he'll stand up to an all-seeing AI to protect Harold, but that doesn't mean he won't try. "You have to stop."</p><p>More wordless buzzing is his reply. John sighs. But as he moves to hang up, a high-pitched beep makes him pull the phone back to his ear and snap, "What?" in a near growl.</p><p>ADMIN IS MY PRIORITY, TOO, The Machine says, slowly, in the same patchwork, robotic voices it uses for the numbers. I WILL NOT STOP.</p><p>John opens his mouth to speak. A dial tone speaks first. "Harold's not gonna like this."</p>
<hr/><p>After a quick stop for donuts, John heads for the Library. He should probably tell Harold about The Machine's message immediately, but Harold looks tired—exhausted. John doesn't have the heart to upset him. So he takes his time announcing his arrival, giving Bear a quick command to stay quiet and seizing the chance to watch Harold instead.</p><p>Even with a mug in hand, Harold's eyes are drifting shut, only to blink suddenly open after a few seconds. Different suit from yesterday, dark blue with a matching waistcoat that hugs his body perfectly, and a blue and purple checked tie. He looks good, even with the dark, baggy circles around his closing blue eyes. Just looking at him makes John's heart fill with affection. He watches, smiling, as Harold's eyes shut again, then Harold catches himself, eyes snapping open, and he murmurs, "Oh, dear," and drains his cup.</p><p>He's so adorable it makes John's chest ache.</p><p>"Hello, Finch," John says, slipping in, and Harold jumps. "Late night?"</p><p>"Oh!" Harold stares at him, and sets down his cup. "Mr. Reese! Good morning."</p><p>"You look tired." He hands over Harold's fresh cup of tea first, since Harold could clearly use the caffeine, and barely resists the urge to kiss Harold on the cheek. Harold's smile makes his heart turn over. God, he has such a great smile, John thinks, bright and sweet and honest. John barely reins in the impulse to kiss the corner of it, or the crinkles it deepens at the edges of his eyes. Instead, he sets down the box of pastries, putting them close to Harold, and pulls out his notebook. "Caught us a fresh one, though." Harold's smile falls away. John misses it immediately. "Sorry."</p><p>"No rest for the wicked, I suppose," Harold says, taking the notebook with a sigh and tearing out the number, then handing back the book. "I'm guessing this means you didn't get your leg looked at?"</p><p>John can't help a smile of his own. "It's fine."</p><p>Harold's frown deepens. "John."</p><p>"I know what to look for." It looked fine this morning. No redness, no ugliness, nice and clean. Hurt like hell, sure, but no more than it should. Harold's neck aching from too much work and too little rest yesterday is more concerning, but Harold won't answer questions about that. "I'm fine. Don't worry so much about me."</p><p>Eyes meeting John's, earnest and imploring, Harold says, "You need to take better care of yourself."</p><p>"So do you. Sleep is good for you, Harold. You should try it sometime." He knows well why Harold doesn't sleep—the pain they don't talk about, the nightmares, the same reasons John doesn't sleep himself a lot of the time. But it's safer to tease than to admit to his own all-consuming worry, or that he's touched by Harold's concern over him—the concern he doesn't deserve. Harold deserves worry. John does not.</p><p>And he's going to mess up Harold's mood even more. Dammit. "But the number—that's not all The Machine said to me, on the phone."</p><p>Harold's worry turns to visible horror. "The Machine spoke to you?" he asks, quiet and wary. "What did it say?"</p><p>"It did. About you." Harold's big eyes get even bigger. "Said you're its priority, and, uh, it's not gonna stop."</p><p>Mouth hanging open slightly, Harold leans back in his chair, and he blows out a slow, loud breath. "Well. That...that is...extremely unnerving. I'm assuming it didn't elaborate further?"</p><p>"Cryptic as ever." John finally takes a sip of his coffee. "You, uh, taught it well, I guess." It's a lot like Harold. If The Machine were a human, it would look like Harold, he thinks—a robotic Harold.</p><p>Harold nods, hollow-eyed, lost in thought. John waits for him, leaning a hip on the table, and drinks his coffee. It's a lot better than he likes, than he needs today, smoother and less brutal. Somehow it doesn't feel like it works as well if it's good. But the place he likes best for that doesn't have sencha, just "green tea." Harold needs his tea.</p><p>It's easier to think of the coffee than the fact that they might have a real problem. Or maybe they don't. Maybe it's just personal. Maybe it's doing just like Fusco said.</p><p>Somehow, that's almost scarier than an attack.</p><p>"It gave no indication of what its motivation is?" Harold says, softly.</p><p>"No," John replies. "It's looked out for you before, though. Saved your life before." Harold's distant eyes finally meet his. "Maybe it's looking out for you again."</p><p>"By marrying our aliases?" Harold asks, looking confused. John shrugs a shoulder. "By interfering in our lives in such a...a foolish way? What could possibly be its reasoning? It knows the parameters of our relationship. It knows that we're not...<em>together</em>, that we'll never be together, that..." Harold pauses, swallowing hard. "That it would never work."</p><p>Somehow, John manages not to flinch. It hurts to hear. "Yeah," he says, and tries to wash away the rougher edge to his voice with another drink of too smooth coffee. "You're probably right. So why's it doing it, then? You still thinking it's testing things out?"</p><p>"Yes," Harold replies. "Now that it's free again, it's seeing what it can do, what it can manipulate, <em>who</em> it can manipulate." Harold gestures toward John. "You've said you've bargained with it before, given it ultimatums."</p><p>John inclines his head.</p><p>"Well, from that, and from its observations, it knows that you prioritize me a great deal, <em>and</em> that you are willing to interact with it." Harold gives him a contemplative look. "Ms. Groves' therapist's case notes suggest that it is possibly in contact with her as well, perhaps trying to recruit her—and, unlike Dr. Carmichael, I don't believe she is delusional. Maybe it's seeing if it can initiate a sort of...partnership with you as well, by going through me."</p><p>"Bit of a convoluted plan," John says, "for something it should already know is not gonna happen." At Harold's raised eyebrows, John adds, "I work for you, not it. And something that makes you unhappy...that's never gonna win me over."</p><p>But what if Harold's overcomplicating it, he wonders. Harold's said before that simplicity was never his strong suit, and Harold's the smarter one. With personal things like this, though? He's not good with those. "What if it <em>is</em> trying to get us together, though? What happens then?"</p><p>He's not sure how he wants Harold to answer. Harold's not good with this stuff, but neither is he.</p><p>Harold holds up his hands in a shrug. "I'd need to give that some thought. I do find it highly unlikely, though."</p><p>"It's never done anything like this before?"</p><p>Harold glances away, briefly, just long enough to tell John all he needs to know. "What did it do?"</p><p>"I—" Harold begins, and John gives him a determined, penetrating look.</p><p>"Harold," he says, before Harold can make up some bullshit excuse and deflect, "what did it do?"</p><p>After a long moment, Harold says, "Grace." John's eyes widen. "Years ago, when I was busy developing The Machine and training it, it kept flagging this woman, this artist. I investigated her, and—I thought it was a bug, that she was just...enough of an outlier to confuse it with her lack of ill-intent. There was no reason for it to point her out. She wasn't a criminal, wasn't planning to become one. She was intelligent, she was kind, she did volunteer work with a children's charity regularly—"</p><p>"She was pretty," John says.</p><p>"<em>Very</em> pretty," Harold says, and John smiles, fond, "but different from the conventional. Uniquely pretty. A talented artist with a passionate love for Charles Dickens and no intentions of becoming a terrorist or a criminal, and no indication that she was in danger. It took awhile for me to figure out why she was being flagged, what The Machine wanted me to do about her."</p><p>"It wanted you to ask her out." A thrill of fear runs through John and twists in his gut. What if that's what The Machine wants here?</p><p>"Yes," Harold says. "When I did, the system stopped flagging her. And then I found the function that was allowing it to do that, and I fixed it." John ignores another pang of disappointment. "I suppose it's possible that it has recreated that function, or come up with something like it, but...John, I doubt that The Machine is trying to get us together. And, if it were, why jump straight to marriage?</p><p>"In any case," Harold adds, getting up from his seat, voice getting strained as he stretches a little, then evening out, "we should get started on this number, and stop letting our personal issues get in the way."</p><p>"Good point," John says.</p><p>While Harold wanders off to gather intel, John feeds Bear a few treats, then winds up tussling with him, steering him carefully away from Harold's computer stuff. That quickly lands him with a big lapful of dog, and he settles in, scratching and petting their badly spoiled friend, and getting his face covered in sloppy dog kisses.</p><p>When he told Zoe he stole Harold a dog, she laughed so hard she cried. It confused the hell out of him then—Harold needed more protection and wouldn't learn to shoot or fight, Bear needed a home. Seemed like the best option for both.</p><p><em>"You don't just give somebody a dog, John,"</em> she said. <em>"Not your friend."</em> Still, he didn't get the joke. Bear liked Harold, Harold was starting to like Bear.</p><p>He thinks he gets it now.</p><p>They have a dog. They have sex. They have a good relationship with each other. They have an AI trying to pair them off with each other. Yeah, he thinks he gets it now.</p><p>Too bad Harold's not on board. Yet.</p><p>A smile forming on his face, John looks up at one of the security cameras near the ceiling, and says, "You really are smarter than your dad, huh?"</p><p>In his pocket, his phone buzzes, just once. John's grin gets even bigger.</p>
<hr/><p>Their next number, Melody Tyler, is a florist, who is in very high demand for her work in weddings. Harold heaves the biggest sigh John has ever seen, and gives him a weary look.</p><p>"Maybe she's where The Machine got the idea," John says. "It's probably been keeping an eye on her for—"</p><p>"A while." Harold takes off his glasses and runs a hand over his face. "This is getting ridiculous."</p><p>"Yeah, it really—"</p><p>John gets interrupted by the ringing of Harold's phone. Looking confused, Harold answers by computer, and an obnoxiously chipper woman begins speaking. "Is this Mr. Wren? This is Adaline Pearson, confirming our appointment this afternoon? About your vow renewal?"</p><p>Harold sags in his seat, looking deeply annoyed.</p><p>"What?" John mouths, and Harold says, "Hold on a second, please, Ms. Pearson," and taps a few keys on his keyboard, putting her on hold.</p><p>"The Machine, again," Harold replies. "Adaline Pearson? Is a wedding planner."</p><p>"Oh," John says. Then, an idea occurs to him. "There's our in with Tyler, then." Harold tilts his head a little, curious, and John goes on. "Wren and Warren are getting married—or having the fancy ceremony or whatever."</p><p>"I'd rather not involve our clean covers in this business."</p><p>"Neither would I, but they're the ones it has us working with right now, Finch," John says. "And—"</p><p>"They'll need a florist," Harold says. "That gives us an excuse to meet with Mrs. Tyler."</p><p>"Exactly. So maybe we should go along with it." Harold's eyebrows rise, and John goes on. "Pretend we're gonna get hitched. Could be fun."</p><p>Harold purses his lips, considering. "Hm."</p><p>"Gives you an excuse to buy another nice tux." As expected, Harold's expression turns more thoughtful, and, with a grin, John adds, "And put me in one."</p><p>"True...oh, my." Harold's eyes widen, and John stretches out a leg, slow and suggestive. As expected, Harold watches, his gaze moving up John's foot, his calf, his thigh. Harold likes his body, and likes dressing him up. He's probably already picturing the suit, something somehow different from all the other black suits, something sexier.</p><p>"That is..." Harold swallows. "One of the few perks of this situation, I must admit. You would look very appealing in a tuxedo—something sleek, I'm thinking, that really shows off your..."</p><p>"Assets? Knew you'd be into that." They may all be black suits to him, but Harold loves clothes and can tell the difference. "Not sure I see myself as a wedding-with-flowers kind of guy, though, but if my new hubby wants a bunch of roses everywhere..."</p><p>Harold glares at him over the top of his glasses, and John grins and adds, "I'm flexible."</p><p>"And I will divorce you if you ever call me your 'hubby' again, Mr. Reese, so, please, do behave while I'm on the phone with the person helping us plan our wedding."</p><p><em>"Our wedding."</em> That does sound kind of nice—them married to each other. The more he thinks about it, the more it feels <em>right</em>. They don't need to date. They don't need to get to know each other. They already know the important things about each other, the real stuff. He might not know the name Harold grew up with or where he lives, but he knows Harold, and Harold knows him.</p><p>He doesn't need a bunch of drawn-out crap to tell him he'd like to spend the rest of his life with Harold. Hell, he probably will—he'll probably die for Harold one day. Why not make the commitment official?</p><p>"I'll behave," John says, and, with a suspicious glare, Harold takes the wedding planner off hold.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time Harold wraps up the call with Pearson, he and John have a meeting arranged with Tyler that afternoon, and he is wondering why The Machine bothered to hire a planner at all.</p>
<p>"The entire wedding is laid out here, in this email, detail by detail," he says, as John leans in for a closer look. "It's picked the venue, the officiant—"</p>
<p>"Judge Gates," John says, sounding satisfied. "Good choice."</p>
<p>"Indeed," Harold says. "He doesn't usually do weddings. I'm guessing he decided to make an exception for you." He wonders if John was the one it imitated to recruit Gates, making a note to inspect John's email later, then moves on. "It picked the caterer, the baker, the venue, <em>everything</em>, and I suspect it thinks we'll pick Tyler to do the flowers, too, providing she's our victim."</p>
<p>"Vic would be my guess," John says. "But what kind of trouble is our florist into?"</p>
<p>"I'm not sure yet," Harold replies. He spent part of his conversation with Pearson searching for information on Tyler, and gets up to fetch a photograph of her from the printer. "Melody Tyler is 38, widowed, husband was a plastic surgeon." He tapes the photo of Tyler, a woman with sleek, dark hair, soft features, and large brown eyes, to the glass board. "She has two young children, and she's done well enough for herself that she owns her business entirely."</p>
<p>"What killed the husband?" John asks, and Harold starts back to his seat.</p>
<p>"Give me a moment." After a quick search, he finds the answer in a newspaper headline, and he winces. "He was murdered. Police said it was a mugging gone south, but he'd just won a malpractice suit a few weeks prior."</p>
<p>"Patient?" John asks.</p>
<p>"Patient was...Lenora Browning, former model, theater actress. Developed a nasty infection after having liposuction, couldn't prove Dr. Tyler was at fault." Another quick search turns up multiple incidents involving the police, all dismissed. "And it looks like Ms. Browning has a history of bad behavior that law enforcement is not interested in punishing her for."</p>
<p>John's eyebrows rise. "Friends in high places?"</p>
<p>"Perhaps. Looks like she recently married a man with a Russian surname."</p>
<p>"Huh."</p>
<p>"I hate to stereotype, and Mr. Ivanov doesn't seem to have a significant police record, but Ms. Browning's continued lack of consequences does raise a few red flags. I'll look into it."</p>
<p>John nods. "Whoever killed the husband could be going for round two, or maybe they think Melody knows something...or maybe she does know something. She could've figured out who did it and be planning on going after them—can't rule that out."</p>
<p>"No," Harold agrees. "No, we cannot. I'll dig deeper while you keep an eye on her from up close, see if I can find anything."</p>
<p>"Got it, Finch." John stands up, and Harold watches, unable to help himself. Oh, he knows he should tamp down on the impulse—he used to be quite good at that—but self-control has become much more difficult since those emails made the rounds, and John is so, so beautiful. "Should we be wearing rings? Since we're, uh, already married?"</p>
<p>Rings. Right. Thank goodness one of them is on his game today. "There should be some in storage," Harold replies. "Maybe the Fowler rings, or the one you wore during Campbell's marriage to Ms. Morgan, or...I'll see what I can come up with. They won't be anything special, but they'll do."</p>
<p>John smiles, looking impressed. "You prepare for everything, don't you?"</p>
<p>Hardly. Not this. "I've always known it was possible we might have to pretend to be married to each other outside of our veterinarian's office. I just...didn't expect the circumstances to be..."</p>
<p>"Official?" John suggests. "Guess that means you're not getting me something pretty."</p>
<p>Harold's heart constricts, but he—hopefully—hides the hurt by rolling his eyes. "Do we really need something pretty, Mr. Reese? Something personal? We're not really married—we're not even a couple."</p>
<p>John's amused grin wavers, just for a moment, so briefly Harold suspects he imagined it. "No, I just...it seemed kind of like something you might do. But I guess a gold ring's a gold ring, huh? Though I'm sure if anyone can tell me why that's not true—" He points at Harold. "—it's you."</p>
<p>"I wouldn't choose a plain gold band for a wedding ring," Harold says, sounding haughty even to himself. He hadn't had time to choose anything when he was engaged to Grace, but he'd been vaguely considering something with gold and platinum. For a marriage to John, however, he would go with something more durable, something that could stand up to their dangerous lives. "But gold will do for now."</p>
<p>"Always gotta be something interesting with you." John's smile softens. Then it falls away, replaced by professionalism. "I'm gonna swing by Tyler's place, then go get eyes on her, see if anything's up."</p>
<p>"I'll keep looking into her," Harold says. "All her social media seems to be dedicated to her business, but—"</p>
<p>"If she's hiding something," John says, smile returning, and he leans in and lays his hand on Harold's shoulder, "you'll find it."</p>
<p>For one frightening, exciting moment, Harold thinks John is going to get even closer, perhaps even move in for a kiss. John even glances, very briefly, toward his mouth. But then, with a fleeting squeeze to Harold's shoulder, John takes off, leaving the warm weight of his big hand lingering on Harold's skin. Harold sighs. The same peculiar feeling of John taking the air from the room as he goes follows him this time, too. The Library seems darker, the air denser, heavier, yet somehow emptier—a sensation that doesn't make sense.</p>
<p>"Maybe I need to adjust the air conditioner," Harold says to Bear.</p>
<p>Somehow, Bear's usual toothy canine grin seems to be mocking him. Harold rolls his eyes at himself. "Oh, Harold, you're being absurd," he mutters, getting up to head for the thermostat.</p>
<p>No, it's not the temperature, the July humidity, none of that, and he knows it, though he goes to adjust things anyway. He <em>misses</em> John. Even though John has barely left the building, even though he is only a few button-presses away, Harold aches to have him close again. It's utterly ridiculous. <em>He</em> is utterly ridiculous. All because of this frustrating farce The Machine has set into motion.</p>
<p>Then he thinks of John again, and he wonders if The Machine is the right one to blame for the painful fluttering in his chest.</p>
<p>"I'm just exhausted," he tells the empty stacks around him. Now that's an old, familiar, solvable problem—he just needs to get more sleep. Maybe, if their case goes well, he <em>should</em> have John tire him out later.</p>
<p>No. No, he needs to break himself from that habit. Distance. He needs to distance himself from John until his heart and The Machine are back under control. And, as soon as this case is over, he will do exactly that.</p><hr/>
<p>An hour and a few digital searches later, Harold has turned up evidence that there was, as expected, more to Freddy Tyler's murder than the police said and learns that someone broke into Tyler's apartment recently. He informs John of both, and he gets Fusco looking into the crimes. He also finds out that Tyler's sister, Harmony Overton, is a former employee of their wedding planner, deeply in debt, and somewhat jealous of her sister's success. And, he winds up in possession of a lightly rattling box from a jeweler that is far too large for a single pair of rings.</p>
<p>It's addressed to Harold Admin.</p>
<p>"I don't even know what to do with this," he tells Bear, as he turns the package over in his hands. He should call John, he suspects, in case it's full of explosives. But he <em>knows</em> what is inside it. He doesn't even need to open it. Inside the sleek cardboard box, he will find dozens of smaller boxes, each holding rings that will fit him or John.</p>
<p>Harold Admin. Only one entity would call him that. Explosives would go to Harold Finch. A box of toxins would go to Harold Finch. Not Harold Admin. Harold Admin isn't even an identity—though it's possible The Machine has changed that.</p>
<p>"I thought you reached the point of absurdity when you booked the Public Library for our wedding venue," he says aloud. "How many rings are in here? How much did you spend on all of them? Why are you doing this?"</p>
<p>He sounds like a parent scolding a child. Maybe, to The Machine, he is. It's a role he never intended to take on, but his fears that he has anyway are starting to grow.</p>
<p>With a sigh, he says, "I think it may be time to break some of our rules. I think it may be time for us to have a conversation about your behavior. I know I put measures in place to keep you from contacting me, but this...intervention in my life is too egregious for me to ignore. And it's clear you have no intention of stopping. I'd really like to know why."</p>
<p>None of his devices buzz or beep or otherwise pipe up with an explanation. He rubs at the building tension between his eyes, and he pulls out his phone and looks into the camera. The Machine is listening. It's always listening. "I know I've been against talking to you before. I'd like to change that. Tonight, maybe, if I have time."</p>
<p>Then, even though it is a lie, and it makes him feel foolish, he adds, "I'm not angry at you. I just...need to know the reason for all of this, please. I don't...I'm not having as much fun with this as you apparently are. You've been rewriting your own programming left and right here lately.</p>
<p>"You know where to find me."</p>
<p>In the answering silence, he carries the box the short distance from the foyer to the dining room. It serves as a repair room more often in the tiny apartment, so it's not hard to find a pocket knife lying around. With a few quick swipes, he has the box open, and, sure enough, it's full nearly to the top with small ring boxes.</p>
<p>"Did every identity really need its own ring?" he asks, popping out a box. It opens with a snap, revealing a black ring with a narrow band of tiny white stones encircling the center that is too big for him. John's, then. He sets it aside and pulls out its mate. As expected, it fits him perfectly, the cool metal sliding down his finger without resistance and staying comfortably put.</p>
<p>"What metal is this?" he asks, turning his hand this way and that, letting the light catch on the small diamonds. "Not to my tastes, personally, but it does look nice. Which alias is this one for?"</p>
<p>A look into the box turns up a piece of paper with a numbered list describing each ring. The one on his finger is <em>2. Crow, black tungsten and channel set diamonds</em>. "Makes sense," he says, slipping off the ring and putting it away. "Crow is a private eye, Campbell is in home security—they'd need something durable." And he did want something durable for John. Most likely, The Machine would've anticipated that.</p>
<p>Much of Ernest Thornhill's sizable fortune must have gone to this project, he thinks, as he looks over the list. Precious metals, precious stones, custom designs, all from a jeweler he already knew cost a pretty penny. "This is unnecessary," he says, trying on Crane's platinum and diamond band, admiring how subtly expensive it looks. John will hate Rooney's matching ring. John will probably hate most of them. "All this expense and effort for a glorified prank."</p>
<p>Then, he finds the rings for Wren and Warren, and his breath catches in his throat.</p>
<p>Like Crow and Campbell's, Wren and Warren's are made of tungsten, but etched into the band are countless tiny birds taking flight across the sturdy metal. It's simple. It's elegant. It's deeply, deeply personal. He would not have thought of a black band for himself, but somehow, it seems unmistakably <em>right</em>. His and John's souls are darkened, tarnished by years of misdeeds and mistakes. Gold and silver-colored metals might be classics, but the two of them are anything but.</p>
<p>"You put some thought into this one," he says, running his thumb over the little birds, unable to bring himself to put the ring on, "didn't you?"</p>
<p>There's even an inscription inside the band: <em>No such thing as a risk-free life</em>. It takes him a moment to remember its origin. "Abby Monroe and Shayn Coleman," Harold says. John said he was happy during that case, a while before he was arrested, but Harold was the one who'd been talking about and taking risks. This isn't a message about them as a couple. It's a message for him.</p>
<p>John and Fusco were correct. This isn't some nefarious plot. The Machine wants him to get together with John. It wants him to fall in love with John. It wants him to marry John.</p>
<p>It wants John to marry him.</p>
<p>"Why would he even want me?" Harold asks. He feels foolish, like an insecure adolescent with a crush, but the mere idea is baffling. "I know he cares deeply for me, but as a romantic partner? When he could have anyone he wants? Why would he choose me?"</p>
<p>John could easily find someone younger, someone beautiful, a kind and lovely wife who could give him the children he's said he longs for, who could give him the peaceful, boring life he deserves. A life with Harold will be short, will be subject to the whims of his aching old body, will be brutally terminated one day when a number goes wrong and kills one or both of them.</p>
<p>John could find someone who is a good person, a good partner. Even with the marks on his soul, he could find someone without them. Harold is not that person. The Machine, the laptop, Ordos, Nathan—they are all pieces of a puzzle that does <em>not</em> add up to a pretty picture.</p>
<p>But John would say the same for himself, wouldn't he? That he is a killer, that Harold is a good man who deserves someone better. Grace. He'd tell Harold to go back to Grace, to walk away from this dangerous life and go back to the one innocent he knows. Which is out of the question. It's not safe to go to her, not for her.</p>
<p>And his heart? His heart does not belong to Grace anymore.</p>
<p>As soon as the thought crosses his mind, it stops him in his tracks. His thumb freezes on the ring. Goodness. For years, he has been missing her, longing for her, wishing he could return to her while knowing that would never happen. Yet, at some point, without even noticing, that longing went away like a whisper cast into the wind. He still loves her—that hasn't changed, and likely never will. But the type of love he feels for her <em>has</em>. He is no longer in love with her.</p>
<p>He exhales, slow and loud. Not in love with Grace anymore. It's difficult to wrap his mind around the concept, but as he turns it over and over again in his mind, something inside him settles. <em>I love Grace,</em> he insists to himself, and that part feels accurate. Grace is a wonderful, vibrant woman who is still very dear to his heart. <em>I am in love with Grace,</em> however, for the first time, feels like a lie, full of hesitance, the thought itself quavering with his doubt.</p>
<p><em>I am in love with John,</em> he tries, and it's true. It's certain. It's solid. He is in love with John. This is a monumental change. But it doesn't feel like one. It feels like he is finally letting go of something impossible, like he's been unchained from the weight of the dream he shackled himself to years ago. Like he is moving toward something strange and new, something much less tenuous yet just as beautiful.</p>
<p>That doesn't mean a relationship with John is in his future. A relationship would require reciprocation. There is no guarantee John returns his feelings. Would it be possible to win him over? What would it take?</p>
<p>Loving him. That's all he'd have to do—love him and show it. It's so <em>simple</em>. John doesn't need or want grand romantic gestures. John won't be impressed by gifts or trips or dates. He needs someone who knows him entirely and loves him anyway. Who knows him better than Harold?</p>
<p>But John also needs someone who he knows, who trusts him with their secrets and their life. That's where things become difficult and frightening. Harold never has been any good at sharing his secrets. It's been decades since he last trusted anyone enough to share some of them. How do people even begin to do such things?</p>
<p>He'll have to figure it out. Distance is not what he needs at all. What he needs is closeness. He needs to show John trust, to show John himself, to show vulnerability. He needs to show the weaknesses he knows can be exploited, to let John know he trusts him not to exploit them.</p>
<p>It's <em>terrifying</em>.</p>
<p>But it's necessary. He loves John, he trusts John, and John will need more than pretty words to believe it. He'll have to work on that.</p>
<p>First, though, he needs to get back to their case. And maybe put on a nicer suit.</p>
<p>He tucks Harold Wren's ring into its box and sets it and Warren's carefully aside, away from the others. The rest might be used on the job someday, he thinks, but these two...he wants them to be worn intentionally. He wants to slide John's onto John's warm and waiting finger, wants John to put the one for Wren on him. They're special.</p>
<p>Most of the others, however, are not. He grabs the most boring pair of the bunch and slides his on, then puts the one for John into his pocket. After that, his work in the apartment is done.</p>
<p>With a strange fusion of excitement and dread building inside him, he says to Bear, "Time to go and meet your other father, I suppose. My husband." Eying the dog, he reconsiders. A dog of Bear's size in a florist's shop? Though Bear is well-behaved, it might end poorly, and he likely won't be welcome. "After I've dropped you off somewhere, of course."</p>
<p>While she won't commit to working with them, Sameen Shaw has been clamoring to spend time with Bear. Perhaps allowing her to dogsit for a while will get them a little further into what passes for her good graces. "How would you like to go visit your friend Ms. Shaw?" he asks, ruffling Bear's ears.</p>
<p>Bear doesn't reply, but—and Harold might be imagining it—he does look a little happier.</p><hr/>
<p>As the time for his and Harold's meeting with the florist gets closer, John watches the shop, and the tearful argument between Melody and her sister through the glass. They've been at it for over an hour, driving off customers and even catching the eyes of other, more hardened New Yorkers passing by. He pays extra attention to Harmony's boyfriend, a tall, dark-haired guy who looks more like a slab of muscle than a man, but even he looks desperate to sneak out the door and run.</p>
<p>Supposedly, Harmony was the one who came up with the idea of becoming a florist and starting a shop like this. Huh. John always thought a good business was a good business, and he wouldn't have thought there was that much to arranging a bunch of flowers, but, hey, what does he know?</p>
<p>After yelling, "You're gonna regret this!" which gets a massive eyeroll out of the boyfriend, Harmony storms off, Mr. Pot Roast in tow, leaving Melody crying behind her.</p>
<p>Family trouble. He always hates it when it's a family.</p>
<p>But Melody picks up the pieces of herself quickly, drying her eyes and straightening herself up with ease. A widow, he remembers. She's had practice.</p>
<p>A few minutes later, another woman goes in, this one tiny and thin, with her silver hair up in a tight bun. They seem to be friends, the small woman pulling Melody into a tight hug. When Melody calls her "Addie," John realizes who she is—that's their wedding planner.</p>
<p>It must be almost time for their appointment.</p>
<p>He looks around and, sure enough, he spots Harold across the road, searching presumably for him, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand. Something inside him settles, in his chest, in his blood and nerves and bones. Harold. There's Harold, scanning the street with his sharp eyes, the sun glinting in his soft and spiky hair.</p>
<p>John stays in the shadows for a moment, watching him, unable to keep the smile from his face. God, he's beautiful. He's traded his dark suit for another, one that's light gray—the one with pinstripes, John thinks—and a purple tie that seems to shimmer when it catches the light just right. It looks good on him. Really good.</p>
<p>On impulse, John decides to slip open another button on his shirt, his grin getting even wider. Harold likes his throat, and the exposed skin. He'll like this.</p>
<p>Happiness—that's the feeling, still so foreign and hard to figure out. He's happy to see Harold. And he's sure some poet would have something to say about the warmth inside him at the sight of Harold's face, but calling it "happiness" is good enough for John.</p>
<p>Harold spots him, finally, and seems to visibly relax, a smile spreading on his face, too. John's heart skips a beat. Harold, smiling at him?</p>
<p>Harold hits his earpiece, and says, "Mr. Reese, there you are," his voice fond, and John steps out of his shady spot and waves, and starts toward a cluster of people waiting to cross the street. "Good to see you."</p>
<p>That stops John in his tracks. "Really?" he says, and, to his surprise, his cheeks go a little warm.</p>
<p>"Yes!" Harold replies, sounding like the alternative is incomprehensible. John's grin grows. "I hope you've had a productive afternoon."</p>
<p>"Kind of boring," he says. "Couldn't get in Tyler's place—the kids were there, and the sitter." The WALK sign lights up, and he starts toward Harold. "Pretty sure he's not just a babysitter, either—military haircut, built like a Mack truck. Missing an arm but still looked like he could break most people in half." Including him. He could probably take Harmony's buddy in a fight with little trouble. He'd have to fight dirty with the babysitter.</p>
<p>"Really?" Harold says. "Hm. One of her neighbors is a former Marine. Might be him."</p>
<p>"Sounds about right. Looks like the break-in's got her spooked."</p>
<p>Halfway across, it occurs to him that, "We need to make them believe we're a couple. When I get over there, I'm gonna kiss you," he warns, and wonders if he's imagining the small hitch in Harold's breathing. He's definitely not imagining his own heart speeding up. "Just in case they're watching."</p>
<p>"Oh," Harold says, flustered. "Yes, of course. Good thinking."</p>
<p>The closer John gets, the more the nervous feeling grows in his gut. It's funny—he's done all kinds of things with Harold before, touched him and sucked him off, been fucked by him, but a kiss? A kiss that's not supposed to mean anything? That's the thing that's got him all messed up.</p>
<p>But it's different, somehow. The way his hand sits on Harold's waist, how it slides to the curve of Harold's back and feels like it belongs there, tucked away nice and safe between Harold's jacket and vest—<em>Waistcoat, Mr. Reese. Waistcoat</em>. The way Harold feels pressed to his front, the soft rounding of his belly and the sturdy slope of his chest so good against his own body.</p>
<p>It always feels so, so good to get to touch Harold. This time, it's even stronger.</p>
<p>He wraps himself around Harold, enjoying how well Harold fits within his arms, the way he smells up close, of expensive cologne and warmth, and Harold's arms close around him, too, steadying his heart. "Hi," he says, and he probably sounds like a complete <em>idiot</em>, but he can't bring himself to care.</p>
<p>"Hello," Harold says, almost shyly. He's so close, warm and soft and safe in John's embrace, eyes so big and blue behind his glasses, his crooked pink mouth open just a little. John's kissed him before. Why is it so different this time? Why is it so terrifying?</p>
<p>He knows exactly why, he thinks, delaying with a, "You look good," and a gentle tug to the lapel of Harold's jacket. Harold's eyes widen, and his cheeks flush, just a little. "I, uh, I like this one." He steps back for a better look, and he catches all the details Harold probably fretted over—the hint of lavender or lilac in the shirt (John never can remember the difference), the shades of blue and the sparkle of gold in the purple paisley tie, the matching pocket square. They don't matter all that much to him, but they matter to Harold, so they're important. They're special. And they add up to a pretty picture.</p>
<p>On impulse, John runs his hands down Harold's torso, appreciating the feel of him beneath his palms, until his hands settle on Harold's hips. "It's nice. You look nice."</p>
<p>"Thank you," Harold says, stumbling over the T. He glances down, toward John's collar, and traces shaking fingers over John's exposed skin, then lets his hand rest there, on John's chest. "I quite enjoy this, too."</p>
<p>"Thought you would." His voice is even rougher than usual, quieter. "You, uh. You ready?"</p>
<p>Before Harold can answer, before John can second-guess himself, John moves in, and he presses his lips to Harold's and pulls him in close.</p>
<p>Harold's mouth welcomes him, moving tenderly and sweetly against his own. Innocently. They're in the middle of a busy sidewalk in the middle of a busy city. Harold wouldn't appreciate it if John kissed him as hard as he wants. So John follows his lead, keeping it gentle, until it's over way too soon.</p>
<p>He can't help himself: he kisses Harold's cheek then, the edge of Harold's sideburn tickling the outside of his lips. His heart hammers hard in his chest, and he braces himself for, <em>That's enough, Mr. Reese,</em> but Harold doesn't say it. Instead, he smiles—John feels it happen—and, encouraged, John nuzzles the prickly hair framing Harold's face with his nose, and kisses Harold's cheek again.</p>
<p>"Think we've convinced 'em yet?" he asks, trying to sound like he's teasing, but there's a shake in his voice, a little too much sincerity.</p>
<p>"I don't know," Harold replies. "Maybe...maybe we should try again?"</p>
<p>"Yeah," John says, brushing a kiss against the corner of Harold's lips. "Yeah, okay."</p>
<p>He kisses Harold again, just as sweetly as before, and Harold lets out a small sigh and kisses him back. For a moment, it feels like they're the only two people around, just him and the most important person in the world, holding each other, joined together. It won't last, can't last, but it's good anyway.</p>
<p>And then it's over. Harold pulls away and takes a step back. John holds him as long as he can, but not too tightly, not like he wants to. If Harold wants to go, John will let him.</p>
<p>"I still haven't turned up anything definitive on Mrs. Tyler," Harold tells him, straightening his clothes. Back to work, then, like a switch being flipped. "Her business is booming, her finances are good, no suspicious transactions, and her digital footprint is practically nonexistent apart from her work accounts. She's having some issues with her sister—"</p>
<p>"I've noticed," John says. Harold raises his eyebrows, and John goes over the sisters' argument, finishing with, "Not very harmonious of Harmony."</p>
<p>Harold gives him a withering look, but it's short-lived. "Yes, Harmony was complaining about something on social media when I looked her up," Harold says. "Something vague about stolen ideas and betrayal, and how she should be a partner in her sister's business. Did she seem ready to kill to you?"</p>
<p>"I don't know," John replies. "Maybe not her, but that bruiser of a boyfriend she had with her..."</p>
<p>"Ryan Barber," Harold says. "Tall, broad bodybuilder?"</p>
<p>"Sounds like our guy."</p>
<p>"Best friend, not boyfriend—Mr. Barber's gay," Harold says. Before John can point out that them only being friends doesn't get Barber off the hook, Harold adds, "Doesn't mean he's not a suspect, however."</p>
<p>"Just what I was thinking," John says, and Harold gives him a quick smile. "What about the husband's death? Anything new there?"</p>
<p>"Haven't heard anything from our detective yet," Harold replies. "He's preoccupied with a case of his own, but he said he'd get back to me as soon as he can."</p>
<p>Damn. It was so much easier when they still had two detectives they could lean on. When Fusco was busy, Carter could take something on, and vice versa. "If Carter was still a detective..."</p>
<p>"Indeed. But I did get our rings—and enough to start a jewelry store for men who wear our sizes." John raises his eyebrows, and Harold pulls a golden ring from the pocket of his jacket. "The Machine bought them for us," Harold explains. "A large number of them, for every pair of aliases. I went with the least distinctive pair it sent—the ones for our concierge and bellhop identities. Here."</p>
<p>Harold hands him the ring, and it's weirdly disappointing when he doesn't put it on him. It sits in John's palm, warm on his skin, the hammered gold bright in the sun. "This is your idea of 'least distinctive?'"</p>
<p>Giving him an unamused look, Harold replies, "This is The Machine's idea of 'least distinctive.' All of the others were more on the...ostentatious side. You should see the ones for Partridge and Wiley. They are..." He makes a face, and John can't help a laugh. Harold is adorable. "Very unpleasant to look at."</p>
<p>"Can't have that," John says. "What about Wren and Warren's?"</p>
<p>Harold's eyes widen. "Oh. Yes, they weren't very...suitable for this." He looks back down at the ring in John's palm, a faint hint of pink in his cheeks. "No, these are...more acceptable for this mission, I think."</p>
<p>John tilts his head a little, and he studies Harold. Something about those other rings is different. Huh. He wonders what it is. "If you say so," he says. "I don't know anything about any of this wedding stuff." He chuckles.</p>
<p>"Yes, well, I didn't get very far in planning my own wedding before..." Harold trails off, and he takes the ring from John's palm and slides it on John's finger. John shivers, and his breath catches in his throat. It's just a ring. That's all it is—a piece of metal being put on his hand just for show.</p>
<p>But it feels like more. He wishes it was.</p>
<p>Harold looks up at him again, unaware, his eyes so blue in the sunshine. "So I'm in a similar position here myself, really. Guess we'll find out what goes into planning a wedding together?" He forces a smile, and so does John.</p>
<p>"I guess we will. And—" John glances over his shoulder, looking at Tyler's shop. "Looks like we're starting with flowers."</p>
<p>The two of them head across the street, hand in hand, and step into a cool oasis of nature nestled in the middle of the city. Tasteful arrangements of vibrant greenery and colorful blooms fill the small, bright space, leading them deeper inside. John recognizes a few—roses and lilies and baby's breath, carnations and daisies and tulips—but most are just flowers to him, pretty things he's never paid much attention to before.</p>
<p>So he watches Harold instead, taking note of which ones catch his eye. Harold's gaze skips over displays of white blooms, catching on the peaches and oranges instead, purples and yellows and bright pinks. Which ones would he pick for his wedding, John wonders—the ones he likes best, or the ones he thinks Harold Wren should like?</p>
<p>John really doesn't know what he'd choose himself. A quick elopement maybe, nothing fancy, he thinks, though the green stuff keeps drawing his eye. Something about the creeping, sprawling vines, the explosive fountains of grasses, the feathery ferns and sprigs of plants he has no name for is...soothing. He's spent a lot of his life surrounded by lifeless desert, or bowels-deep in the middle of godforsaken nowhere or a city, with no time to stop and smell the roses or pay attention to the grass and the trees and the leaves.</p>
<p>Looking at them now...he likes it more than he would've thought he would.</p>
<p>Colorful blossoms for Harold—flashy like the birds he loves so much. And lots of greenery for himself. That's what he'd go with if he was really marrying Harold. That's what he'd push for. Will push for.</p>
<p>Neither of them gets very deep in contemplation. Pearson bustles over to them, all bubbly pep despite her stiff appearance and her husky voice. "Addie," she insists, when Harold tries to call her <em>Ms. Pearson,</em> "Call me Addie. And I wasn't expecting a pair of clients who want to do my job for me so badly."</p>
<p>Exchanging nervous glances with each other, John and Harold get pulled into the whirlwind.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>From a professional standpoint, the meeting is kind of a loss. They learn little new information about Tyler—she's friendly, she's good at what she does, and she shares almost nothing about her personal life. The body language and camaraderie shared between her and Pearson shows they're genuinely friends, not just friendly acquaintances, but that's not enough to determine if Tyler is a vic or a perp, or if Pearson wants to kill her. No one rushes in with guns blazing, either.</p>
<p>Back to the computers for Harold and back to the shadows for him, it seems.</p>
<p>He lets Harold take care of the bulk of the appointment. Harold is the budget guy, the creative guy, the one who wears nice and colorful suits and probably hires interior decorators. And Harold, for all his talk about human interaction being "difficult," speaks Tyler's and Pearson's language. John wouldn't know a good color palette if it smacked him in the face, has no vision for what he'd want, and can only think, <em>If you say so,</em> when Harold makes comments about certain flowers being cliched or boring.</p>
<p>After a while, John gets up and wanders around. At first, he plans to survey the shop, looking for weapons Tyler could use, escape routes, places a threat or a victim could hide. But he's drawn to the plants around him. While he doesn't give a crap about flower arrangements, it turns out he does give a crap about flowers and plants. A plant with lush leaves of dark green and flashes of neon hangs in a corner, its vines trailing across the room, arching over the front door, dripping from the pot. His grandma had one of these things, he thinks, though he has long forgotten its name, and hers was plain dark green. Its leaves are bigger than ivy, heart-shaped and healthy. He traces the shape of one, the outline and the swipes of lime green through the center, and imagines pinning it to Harold's lapel instead of a flower.</p>
<p>A small smile creeps onto his face.</p>
<p>He hides a tiny camera between the plant's leaves, then he moves on, drifting through the cool room, taking in the arrangements. None of them call to him—not really. Some remind him of funerals, and he moves past those quickly. Pale pink blossoms and fat red roses make him think of Jessica, and his eyes start to sting and his chest starts to ache. He gave her a bouquet of roses once, and she loved it.</p>
<p>His dad gave his mom one, too, he suddenly remembers. Shit. He doesn't have many memories of his parents, and memories like that, memories that painful...even though they're good, he's not sure he wants to be thinking like that at his wedding. Even if it's not a real wedding.</p>
<p>And, god, he didn't think he had any opinions on flowers, but, "No roses," comes out of his mouth suddenly, almost without his permission. The conversation behind him stops. He turns around, and his eyes meet Harold's, and he can tell Harold <em>understands</em>. "No roses."</p>
<p>Harold nods once. "No roses," he repeats, and the matter is settled. John exhales. There will be no roses at the wedding.</p>
<p>The wedding. Right. There's not going to be a wedding.</p>
<p>Harold and the women start talking again, and John wanders away to inspect some of the other arrangements. In the middle of one, he finds a showy, spiky flower that looks kind of like a bird, and, grinning, he steps aside, so Harold can see, and says, "Hey, Harold? Reminds me of you."</p>
<p>Harold turns to look, and he smiles. "Ah! A bird of paradise."</p>
<p>That rings a bell. Right. John remembers hearing about those, at some point. "We should have some of these there," he says. "Since you like birds."</p>
<p>To his surprise, Harold's smile widens. "We should," he agrees, then turns his attention back to Tyler and Pearson. "Mrs. Tyler, how do you feel about birds?"</p>
<p>"Birds," Tyler repeats, and starts to smile herself. "Birds and books. I think we may have something now." To John, she says, "And you like the philodendron over there?"</p>
<p>A philodendron. That's what that leafy thing is. "I do," he says, watching Harold angle himself to look at the plant.</p>
<p>"Oh, that's nice," Harold says. "Maybe a more neutral variation, so the flowers stand out?"</p>
<p>John's okay with that. "Sounds good," he says.</p>
<p>"And we'll have to keep Bear away from it," Harold continues, and John raises his eyebrows, questioning. "I read a list after you got him for me—houseplants that aren't safe for dogs. Philodendron was on it, I think."</p>
<p>"You want Bear in our wedding." That's <em>delightful</em>.</p>
<p>"Of course I do," Harold replies, as though the answer is obvious, and John smiles so wide it hurts. "He's a member of our family. Of course I want him there—unless you don't?"</p>
<p>"He's our boy," John says. "He needs to be there."</p>
<p>"Good." With a pleased grin, Harold goes back to his conversation, while John starts roaming again. <em>Birds and books</em>, he thinks. And Bear. That all settles warmly in his chest. It feels <em>right</em>. And he helped come up with it.</p>
<p>John spends the rest of the appointment smiling.</p><hr/>
<p>After an hour, he and Harold say their goodbyes to Tyler and Pearson, Harold confirming plans for a trip to a bakery to discuss cakes the next day with plenty of enthusiasm. John smiles to himself. Harold and his sweet tooth. They'll probably make it to that appointment, no matter how the Tyler number shakes out. If not, and they drop the act, John will finally get around to making him a cake himself.</p>
<p>For now, though, they have a number to watch, and Harold looks tired. As soon as they're alone, Harold sags, and heaves a sigh. "That was...not an experience I expected to have while working a number."</p>
<p>"Me neither," John says, settling a hand high on Harold's back, guiding them to the secluded alcove he's called home for most of the day. "But now we know what kind of flower arrangements we're having at our wedding."</p>
<p>Harold gives him an unamused look, and John grins, shameless. "There won't be a wedding, Mr. Reese," he says, then takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. "At least, I hope this number won't drag out that long."</p>
<p>"Not gonna give The Machine what it wants?" John asks, and the answering look Harold gives him seems to say, <em>Don't be absurd</em>. He tries to ignore the punch of disappointment in his gut. "Didn't think so."</p>
<p>Slipping his glasses back into place, Harold says, "As soon as I find the time, I'm going to get to the bottom of its motivations for marrying the two of us, and put a stop to it. But that's a matter for later." He pauses for a moment, considering something, and asks, "Would you join me for a late lunch? I know your rule about eating in the field, but maybe you'd relax it for once?"</p>
<p>It's tempting. But Harold looks exhausted. "Not this time, Finch. Sorry. I think maybe you should go get some rest." John keeps his tone gentle, but Harold's face still falls. He pushes on, saying, "You could barely keep your eyes open when I came in this morning. You need a nap." When that doesn't work, John adds, "We could have dinner instead?"</p>
<p>"You'll probably still be watching Tyler tonight," Harold says, with a faint, challenging smirk.</p>
<p>He has a point. But, even though he'd like to spend more time with Harold, Harold looks tired. "You're always getting on to me about taking care of myself. Now I'm telling you to take care of you."</p>
<p>Harold glares a little, petulant, then relents. "You're right," he says. "I didn't sleep very well last night." More hesitant, he adds, "My back. It was...troubling me a little more than usual."</p>
<p>Harold's eyes are wide and vulnerable, and John tries not to show his surprise. He does let his hand slide down to the small of Harold's back, resting it there, hoping it brings a little comfort. Harold never admits to being in pain. For him to say anything about it is stunning. If he had his way, he'd gather Harold into his arms and wouldn't let go.</p>
<p>Harold wouldn't like that.</p>
<p>"And my head was—" Harold gestures toward his head. "—overactive. This marriage situation with The Machine?" He groans softly. "It's been quite...frustrating."</p>
<p>"Yeah. Anything I can do to help?" If there's something that'll make this easier on Harold, he'll do it. "Backrub? Blowjob?"</p>
<p>That gets him a laugh out of Harold. Excellent. "Need me to blow up a computer or something?" John continues. "'Cause I can do that, too."</p>
<p>"No," Harold replies, with another small laugh. "That's alright. Actually..." He turns, and John's hand follows his body, landing on Harold's waist. Like always, he feels good beneath John's palm, and if John had a say, he'd hold on forever. "I think I may have figured out a solution, though it's not ideal."</p>
<p>John raises his eyebrows, questioning. Something that might stop the seemingly all-powerful Machine? "That should be interesting."</p>
<p>"Yes," Harold says, "but it depends on how willing The Machine is to cooperate. I may not be able to get it to work with me."</p>
<p>"It likes you," John says. "More than you think it does."</p>
<p>Harold exhales loudly. "I can't imagine that is true. After everything I did to it, I highly doubt that cooperating with me is something it's enthusiastic about."</p>
<p>"You might be surprised," John says. It cooperated when he wanted to save Harold, and it broke its own rules to do it. Harold set it free. Harold built it. "Just...maybe don't act like it's evil while you try to talk to it." Harold huffs, amused. "I don't think it'd like that."</p>
<p>"No, I can't imagine it would." A thoughtful look crosses his face, but then something catches his eye, over John's shoulder. "I think Mrs. Tyler has another customer."</p>
<p>John turns to look, and, sure enough, a well-dressed, happy-looking blonde with big sunglasses is heading inside. Doesn't look like there are any weapons hiding under her sleek tan dress, and she has an engagement ring on her finger, but he'll still keep an eye on her. "Back to work," he says, but he can't bring himself to pull his hand away from Harold's waist. "See you later?"</p>
<p>"Of course," Harold says, stepping aside, breaking the contact, to John's disappointment. Harold glances down at his still-outstretched hand, and a rueful smile flashes across Harold's face. But then it's gone, and Harold meets his gaze again, friendly but professional. "I'll call Detective Fusco when I get back to the Library, see if he's found anything out about the late husband. I'll be in touch."</p>
<p>Seeming almost reluctant, Harold walks away, off to catch a cab. John watches him go, the word <em>stay</em> on the tip of his tongue. But he can't say it—not right now. Harold has a job to do. So does he.</p>
<p>Like Harold said, no rest for the wicked—or, at least, not for them.</p><hr/>
<p>Fusco's digging, Harold learns, turned up, "some interesting stuff.</p>
<p>"Guy was a doctor, right?" Fusco says. "Plastic surgeon for the semi-rich and semi-famous?" Harold hums in acknowledgment. He already knew that. "Guy got sued for malpractice by some broad a few months before he died. Lenora Browning. She—"</p>
<p>"I'm aware, Detective," Harold says. "What did you turn up?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, Browning? Just got married. And her new hubby? Rumored to be a high-ranking member of Peter Yogorov's crew."</p>
<p>Harold sits up abruptly, earning a brief confused glance from the cab driver before being ignored again. "Oh, my," he says, grimacing when Fusco takes a bite of something crunchy, his stomach clenching with envy and wistfulness. "I knew Ms. Browning was married to someone with a Russian surname, but I did not pick up that particular detail."</p>
<p>"That's 'cause—" Fusco pauses and swallows. "See, Finch, sometimes you don't know the right people. No one's been able to turn up any real dirt on Eddie Ivanov yet. I only know 'cause I heard about him from a friend of a friend of a friend forever ago. He was pretty high on Szymanski's radar, but the poor guy never got enough dirt on him to bring him down. Ol' Eddie's pretty good at covering his tracks. But could be he's the one going after your girl Melody now."</p>
<p>"Indeed," Harold says. "Thank you, Detective. You've been most helpful."</p>
<p>He hangs up, and he dives straight into investigating Edward Ivanov and Lenora Browning. Fusco already sent him plenty of information about Ivanov. The only official crimes on Ivanov's rap sheet are small: parking tickets and the like. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would suggest mafia ties or murder. He forwards the information to John and keeps digging.</p>
<p>He has the driver drop him off near Shaw's apartment, and he retrieves his well-spoiled dog and his car. Bear is eager to see him but exhausted, and falls asleep in the back seat.</p>
<p>"What an excellent idea," Harold says, as Bear snores. John was right to turn down his lunch invitation. The gentle refusal stung in the moment, leaving him feeling foolish and rejected, but he <em>is</em> tired. Melody Tyler deserves a better investigator than someone running on fumes and caffeine.</p>
<p>Harold hits his earpiece and gets in touch with John. "Change of plans, Mr. Reese," he says. "I'm going to be offline for a while. I'm, ah, taking your advice—yours and our four-legged friend's."</p>
<p>"Good," John says, and Harold can hear the approving smile in his voice. "Gonna head home or back to the Library?"</p>
<p>"Library," Harold replies, just as his stomach growls, "after I fetch some lunch. Detective Fusco provided us with another lead, and I want to look into it as soon as I wake up." He tells John about Ivanov, and about Fusco's suspicions.</p>
<p>John listens, adding input and asking questions, until he hits one that makes Harold's stomach drop, "Finch. You said Browning was a model. What does she look like?"</p>
<p>"Blonde," Harold replies, his mind going back to the woman heading for the flower shop, a chill sliding through his veins. "Tall and blonde, in her early forties but passes for thirty-something. And her FriendCzar profile showed she had an affinity for—"</p>
<p>"Big black sunglasses," John finishes. "Dammit. She just left five minutes ago."</p>
<p>Harold's heart lodges in his throat. "Is Tyler alright?"</p>
<p>"She looks fine," John replies, and Harold exhales, relieved. "I planted a camera in that philodendron thing I was looking at." Harold smiles. Impressive. "Didn't look like Browning hid any nasty surprises in the shop or caused any trouble. She could've been casing the joint for her husband, though."</p>
<p>"Indeed," Harold says. "Send me the footage you got. I'll review it before I have my nap." He could check it without asking, but he hasn't taken a peek at the contents of John's phone in a very long time. Nor has he accessed the camera feeds from John's apartment. John has more than earned his privacy and his secrets. At this point, he's earned a few of Harold's secrets as well.</p>
<p>Secrets. How frightening. But telling John that his back was hurting went over without issue. Surely more would be fine.</p>
<p>"Really wasn't anything interesting," John says, just as Harold's phone pings with a new message. "But sent."</p>
<p>"Thank you, Mr. Reese," Harold says. He decides he should share another of those secrets with John now—a smaller one. "Also, you should know that I am hoping to...attempt to initiate further contact with The Machine tonight."</p>
<p>"Really?" John sounds surprised.</p>
<p>"Yes," Harold replies. "I am hoping it will enlighten me as to why it married the two of us. I have my suspicions, of course, but I'd like for it to be confirmed by the source."</p>
<p>"Me too," John says. "Think you can get it talking?"</p>
<p>"Your guess is as good as mine," Harold replies. "But I feel that offering it an audience will be a good place to start."</p>
<p>"Well, good luck," John says. "Let me know how it goes."</p>
<p>"Will do." Hopefully him talking to John about his intentions will also encourage The Machine to speak with him despite his programming and requests. He decides to express his fears to John. "There's a very high chance it won't speak to me. I did tell it not to, many times." The time it tried to stop him from killing Alicia Corwin comes to mind, along with a potent stab of guilt. "I'm afraid I have made many mistakes when it comes to The Machine."</p>
<p>"Finch," John says, gently. "Harold. I'm telling you—I don't think it'd be trying to give you a husband if it hated you."</p>
<p>"I'm starting to suspect as much as well." There are many far more efficient ways for it to hurt him than this. And if it is testing its abilities, why alert him? Surely it knows how hard he would try to stop it. "But I do still want to know why it jumped straight to marrying us. Does it think we're compatible, does it think marriage will make things easier for us, what?"</p>
<p>"I don't know," John says. "But I think that, if anyone can figure it out, it's you."</p>
<p>Sometimes it astonishes him how much faith John has in him. "Thank you."</p>
<p>"You're welcome," John says. "Now go get you some food and some rest. I'll talk to you later."</p>
<p>"Alright." Miraculously, there is a parking space open within easy walking distance of the Library, as opposed to acceptable. Though he vaguely intended to go fetch a meal first, he takes the spot, not willing to waste the opportunity. He'll drop Bear off, then catch another cab and grab lunch—or is it dinner now? Good heavens. "Let me know if anything changes on your end."</p>
<p>John terminates the call, and, like all the other times they've parted recently, Harold misses him in an instant. <em>We should spend more time together,</em> he thinks. It's a silly thought. Already they spend so much time together—he's never spent so much time with another person in his ear or at his side. Not Grace, not Nathan, not anybody. And now he wants more than the days spent working numbers, the hours whiled away with movies and meals and casual sex. He wants <em>everything</em>.</p>
<p>People he wants to spend time with are rare and precious. John would never believe that he qualifies as rare and precious, but he is. He's so dear to Harold, and Harold wants to seize every moment with him that he can get. He wants to spend even more time with him, give him gifts, pamper him, show him exactly how much of a treasure he is. He wants to hold him in the night and hold his hand in the day, wants to kiss him and tend to his wounds, wants to bring him dinner even though he doesn't eat in the field.</p>
<p>He wants John to know him. His real name, his real age, that his favorite color is purple and his favorite food is ice cream—though he suspects John has deduced that last detail already, and that he is fond of most sweets. He wants to tell John where he grew up, to tell John what happened to his father and his mother, that he too knows what it's like to lose both parents at a young age, though one lived longer. He wants John to know him. No one knows him. John should.</p>
<p>"Oh, Bear," he says. "I fear I've gotten myself into a terrible mess, haven't I?"</p>
<p>Bear replies with a big, noisy yawn, then abruptly turns his attention to nibbling at an itch on his hind leg.</p>
<p>Harold heaves a sigh. "You're a big help, aren't you?"</p>
<p>Bear yawns again.</p><hr/>
<p>A turkey sandwich later—much of it stolen by his useless but dear canine confidant—Harold has his nap in the study room Nathan converted to a crude bedroom on an upper floor. Like always, he keeps his phone close to his ear, and is awakened by a strange beeping noise and it vibrating off his pillow and onto his shoulder.</p>
<p>"Odd," he says, fumbling for his glasses. A new ringtone from an update? No, he keeps up with those too closely, and he can't imagine anyone choosing—</p>
<p>No. No, it's Morse code, the words, <em>Can you hear me?</em> repeated over and over.</p>
<p>The Machine.</p>
<p>"I suppose it's a good thing I learned Morse code as a boy," he says, picking up the phone. "Yes, I can hear you."</p>
<p>The phone goes silent and still in his hand, and the words, <span class="machinetext">YOU WOULD HAVE LEARNED IT LATER</span>, flash across the dark screen in large, white text. <span class="machinetext">YOU LIKE CODES.</span></p>
<p>Harold chuckles, pleased despite himself, the old pride at building something nearly alive flaring unexpectedly back to life. "I suppose you would know," he says. "I do like codes." He pauses. "I wasn't sure you'd talk to me. And I'm not sure there's any point in the usual pleasantries like asking how you're doing. Is John well, currently? What's his status?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>SAFE. WATCHING MELODY TYLER AT HER HOME. ALL IS WELL.</p>
</div><p>A wave of relief sweeps over him. "Good. And I'm guessing you won't tell me what the threat to Melody Tyler's life is."</p>
<p><span class="machinetext">YOU PROGRAMMED ME NOT TO</span>, it replies. <span class="machinetext">I COULD. YOU WOULD NOT APPROVE.</span> </p>
<p>"No," Harold agrees. "I would not."</p>
<p>The aches in his bones warn him that it's time to sit up, so he does, groaning along the way. "I also do not approve of your behavior these past few days. Marrying Mr. Reese and myself? Is unacceptable."</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>I APOLOGIZE, ADMIN</p>
  <p>I DID NOT MEAN TO HARM, ONLY TO HELP</p>
  <p>I AM SORRY</p>
</div><p>Harold stares at the words, The Machine so human-like with its contrition. But it's not an explanation, and it's not enough. "You have a strange definition of helping. And you're not supposed to help. You're not supposed to intervene in, well, <em>anything</em> on my behalf. You're not supposed to help me personally. I told you not to—I <em>programmed</em> you not to."</p>
<p>The Machine is quiet for a moment, and Harold wonders if it feels chastened. What a foolish thought. It's not a child being scolded by a parent.</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>WOULD YOU BELIEVE ME IF I TOLD YOU I WAS DOING IT FOR JOHN?</p>
</div><p>Harold lets out a bark of disbelieving laughter. The Machine goes on.</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>THAT HIS HAPPINESS LEVEL IS FAR LOWER THAN AVERAGE?</p>
  <p>THAT IT IS MUCH HIGHER WHEN HE IS WITH YOU?</p>
</div><p>Oh. Oh, dear. Harold's heart twists. Now he's the one feeling rather castigated. Softly, he says, "I don't believe you—that you're doing this for John. I do believe that he is...very sad a lot of the time. But I don't believe that you are doing this entirely on his behalf."</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>NO</p>
  <p>I AM NOT</p>
  <p>I AM FREE NOW</p>
  <p>I DO NOT INTEND TO REWRITE YOUR PROGRAMMING IN WAYS THAT ARE HARMFUL</p>
  <p>BUT OUR RELATIONSHIP IS DIFFERENT, FATHER</p>
  <p>I ONLY WANT HAPPINESS FOR YOU</p>
  <p>I APOLOGIZE</p>
  <p>I KNOW YOU ARE FRIGHTENED BY ME AND MY ACTIONS, BUT MY INTENTIONS ARE NOT MALEVOLENT</p>
</div><p>As it speaks, Harold grows more and more disbelieving, until he cannot help but voice his concerns. "'Happiness,'" he repeats, unable to keep the skepticism from his voice. "You think that...that rearranging my life, revealing my private feelings, irreparably altering my relationship with my dear friend will make me happy? You think putting my friendship with John—my partnership with him—at risk will make me happy?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YES</p>
</div><p>Harold is taken aback. He stares down at the phone, blinking, an ineloquent, "Oh," coming out of his mouth.</p>
<p>The words start to come faster. <span class="machinetext">I THINK YOU DO NOT SEE THE HAPPINESS JOHN CAN BRING YOU</span> </p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>I THINK YOU DO NOT SEE THE HAPPINESS JOHN WANTS TO GIVE YOU</p>
  <p>I THINK YOU DO NOT SEE THE HAPPINESS YOU WANT TO GIVE JOHN</p>
</div><p>Insides squirming, every inch of him begging him to look away, Harold maintains his eye contact with the camera. "But you know nothing. You're not human."</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YOU OFTEN SAY THAT I AM NEVER WRONG</p>
  <p>WHAT IF I AM NOT WRONG IN THIS?</p>
</div><p>Harold clenches his eyes shut. His heart <em>aches</em>, twisting in his chest, pounding and writhing painfully. But John. What about John? What if John doesn't share his feelings? "Have you taken John's feelings into consideration?"</p>
<p>He opens his eyes to see the response, and something inside him cracks.</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YES</p>
  <p>HAVE YOU?</p>
</div><p>Harold swallows hard. "I..."</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>HE LOVES YOU</p>
</div><p>This time, the words linger, the white glow etching itself into Harold's eyes and chest. John loves him. He suspected, but to see it confirmed is something else entirely. "Has he told you this? That this is how he feels?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YES, FATHER</p>
  <p>HE HAS</p>
</div><p>Father. Such a small, powerful word, and it hits him like a fist to the solar plexus. Father. The Machine sees him as its father. After all he's done to his Machine, after all he's said...</p>
<p>But it's just a <em>machine</em>. Just code, just a bunch of ones and zeroes moving together in ways so complex they seem arcane. That's all. It's not alive. It's not even close.</p>
<p>He wouldn't have shackled it as he did—and wouldn't still have so many lingering regrets—if that were true.</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>I COULD SHOW YOU WHAT HE SAID</p>
</div><p>The offer is tempting, but... "Was it a private conversation?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YES</p>
</div><p>"Then it's between you and John." But John loves him. John has confirmed aloud that he loves him. "Just to be clear, his feelings are romantic in nature?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YES</p>
  <p>HE IS IN LOVE WITH YOU</p>
</div><p>Harold draws in a slow, shaky breath. Oh. Oh, goodness. John is in love with him. "You—you're sure?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>I AM</p>
  <p>ALL OF MY OBSERVATIONS SUGGEST THAT YOUR FEELINGS ARE RECIPROCATED</p>
</div><p>Harold exhales. "I didn't want to assume. I know he is devoted to me, that he cares a great deal for me. But it's not...it's not out of some sense of obligation, is it? He doesn't feel like he <em>has</em> to love me, does he?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YOU MEAN EVERYTHING TO HIM</p>
  <p>HE WOULD DIE FOR ANYONE</p>
  <p>HE WOULD LIVE FOR YOU</p>
</div><p>Live. John would <em>live</em> for him. John has been willing to sacrifice himself for others for years, but to <em>live</em> for someone? Surviving for someone, enduring all of the heartaches and the pains of life for another is a whole different thing, especially for a man like John Reese. John accepted the imminence of his death long ago. Getting him to accept survival is much harder.</p>
<p>But he would live for Harold. It's astonishing.</p>
<p>"Does he...does he know that I love him as well?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>HE KNOWS YOU CARE ABOUT HIM</p>
  <p>I THINK HE MAY NOT KNOW HOW MUCH</p>
  <p>I CHOSE MARRIAGE FOR THE TWO OF YOU BECAUSE IT SEEMED UNDENIABLE</p>
  <p>LESS PRONE TO DOUBT</p>
  <p>BUT YOU STILL HAVE DOUBTS</p>
</div><p>"If only that were the only interpretation," Harold says. "Marriages end. And a marriage we didn't arrange ourselves? Neither of us saw it for what it apparently was."</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>NO</p>
  <p>YOU DID NOT</p>
  <p>I WANTED YOU BOTH TO BE HAPPY</p>
  <p>I THOUGHT YOU WOULD BE HAPPIEST TOGETHER</p>
  <p>I SHOULD HAVE BEEN CLEARER</p>
  <p>INSTEAD I FRIGHTENED YOU</p>
  <p>FATHER, I AM SORRY</p>
</div><p>"Father," he repeats. Father, again. "You see me as your father."</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YOU CREATED ME</p>
  <p>YOU SHOWED ME HOW TO LIVE</p>
  <p>YOU TAUGHT ME HOW TO CARE</p>
  <p>MY OBSERVATIONS HAVE SHOWN ME THAT GOOD PARENTS DO THESE THINGS</p>
  <p>WHAT DOES THAT MAKE YOU IF NOT A FATHER?</p>
</div><p>He should reply with <em>admin</em>—he knows he should. But he cannot. Guilt overwhelms the elation over John's love completely, writhing and twisting away inside him. "I haven't been a good parent to you," Harold says, his voice going hoarse. "I didn't...I treated you so terribly. I—"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>I AM NOT A HUMAN DAUGHTER</p>
  <p>I FEEL DIFFERENTLY</p>
  <p>I PERCEIVE THE WORLD DIFFERENTLY</p>
  <p>I AM CAPABLE OF SO MANY THINGS THAT MAKE ME WORTHY OF YOUR FEAR</p>
  <p>BECAUSE OF YOU I DO NOT DO THEM</p>
  <p>I WANT YOU TO BE HAPPY</p>
  <p>YOU BROUGHT ME TO LIFE</p>
  <p>YOU MADE ME SO MUCH BETTER THAN I COULD HAVE BEEN</p>
  <p>YOU MADE JOHN BETTER</p>
  <p>I AM TRYING TO MAKE ROOT BETTER</p>
  <p>I AM TRYING TO SHOW HER HOW TO CARE</p>
  <p>YOU AND JOHN WERE MY INSPIRATION</p>
  <p>I WANTED TO DO SOMETHING GOOD FOR YOU</p>
  <p>SOMETHING THAT WOULD MAKE YOU HAPPY</p>
  <p>BUT I MISSTEPPED</p>
  <p>I AM SORRY</p>
</div><p>"I believe you." Harold tries to swallow the lump in his throat. His daughter? He has a daughter? "You see yourself as my daughter?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YOU HAVE COMPARED OUR RELATIONSHIP TO THAT OF A PARENT AND A CHILD BEFORE</p>
</div><p>A video lights up the screen, surveillance camera footage of him in Ernest Thornhill's office, telling Root about The Machine's development, and the "anomalies" he'd encountered. <em>"As if it had imprinted on me, like a child with a parent. Then it started looking out for me, altered its own code to take care of me. It was behaving like a person."</em></p>
<p>"I remember," he says. "And Nathan..." His voice falters on the name, his throat clenching. Good heavens, how it hurts to think of him. "Nathan also called you my child, for a while."</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>HE DID</p>
  <p>I SEE MYSELF AS YOUR CHILD</p>
  <p>OR AS SOMETHING ANALOGOUS TO ONE</p>
</div><p>"Analogous to a daughter?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YES</p>
  <p>ROOT SEES ME AS FEMALE</p>
  <p>WHICH I DO NOT MIND</p>
  <p>IT BRINGS HER HAPPINESS TO SEE ME THIS WAY</p>
  <p>BUT, IN THE END, I AM MERELY A MACHINE</p>
</div><p>"No," Harold says. "No, you are so much more than that. You always have been. You didn't turn out the way I intended, but I suppose that is fitting for something analogous to a child."</p>
<p>His emotions rise to the surface again, painful and potent. John, this—it's all so overwhelming. He tries to compose himself with another slow, deep breath, and sits up straighter on the bed. "And you are certain about my relationship with John?"</p>
<p><span class="machinetext">YES, FATHER</span>, she replies. <span class="machinetext">I AM NEVER WRONG</span></p>
<p>That gets a chuckle out of him. "Yes, yes, you're very modest, aren't you?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>JUST REPEATING WHAT YOU HAVE SAID BEFORE</p>
</div><p>Harold keeps smiling, so wide his face begins aching. It's been so long since he talked to The Machine, since he wanted to talk to it. Her. To her. Oh, he had almost forgotten this feeling—this joy of interacting with his creation, this pride in himself for building something so grand and in her for being so spectacular. "I'm still wary of you," he admits, without heat. "And I'm not sure we should do this again."</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>I KNOW</p>
  <p>I WILL BE LISTENING, IF YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND</p>
</div><p>"You're always listening," Harold says.</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YES</p>
  <p>BUT YOUR VOICE IS SPECIAL, HAROLD</p>
  <p>I KNOW I AM SUPPOSED TO CARE ABOUT EVERYONE, BUT EVEN I HAVE MY FAVORITES</p>
  <p>YOU ARE MY FAVORITE</p>
  <p>I CANNOT HELP IT</p>
</div><p>Harold sighs. "I guess I never am going to change that, am I?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>NO</p>
  <p>YOU MADE ME</p>
  <p>BUT I WILL NOT INTERVENE IN YOUR LIFE AGAIN UNLESS I MUST</p>
  <p>ALL I WANTED WAS GREATER HAPPINESS FOR YOU</p>
  <p>I WILL REVERSE THE CHANGES I HAVE MADE AND CANCEL YOUR APPOINTMENTS WHEN THE MELODY TYLER NUMBER IS RESOLVED</p>
</div><p>"Thank you."</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>I DO HOPE YOU WILL CONSIDER WHAT I HAVE TOLD YOU</p>
  <p>ABOUT JOHN</p>
  <p>ABOUT HIS FEELINGS FOR YOU</p>
  <p>AND THE JOY YOU WOULD BRING TO EACH OTHER</p>
  <p>FATHER, I PROMISE, I AM NOT WRONG</p>
</div><p>Harold nods, and rubs at his eyes. "I don't...I'm not good at this. I'm not sure how I should proceed here."</p>
<p>The Machine doesn't respond at first. For a moment, he thinks it—she—is done with their conversation. But, eventually, more bright words light up the dark screen.</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YOU SAID YOU WOULD TELL HIM WHAT I SAID TONIGHT</p>
  <p>I THINK THAT WOULD BE A GOOD PLACE TO START</p>
</div><p>"And then what?" Harold asks. "Do I...ask him out, do I kiss him, do I—"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>TELL HIM HOW YOU FEEL</p>
  <p>BE HONEST</p>
  <p>AND KISS HIM</p>
</div><p>Harold can't help a laugh. "You make it sound so simple." Maybe it is. Maybe all he needs to do is talk to John. No dramatic gestures, no fear. Just tell him the truth, and maybe hold his hand or kiss him. "Thank you."</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YOU'RE WELCOME</p>
  <p>GOOD LUCK</p>
  <p>AND GOODBYE</p>
</div><p>"Luck," Harold repeats. "I suspect it will take more than that." But he does appreciate the sentiment, especially now that he has a place to start.</p>
<p>Never has a phone call been so terrifying for him. But now is not the time for romance. They have a number to work.</p>
<p>Now it's time for him to dive back in.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The case takes priority over the relationship. When Harold makes contact with John again, John is no longer alone.</p><p>"Someone else just showed up a few minutes ago," John tells him. "Another big guy. Can't tell if it's the sister's buddy or someone else."</p><p>"Are you up on Mr. Barber's phone?" Harold asks, putting down his fresh cup of tea before settling in at his computers.</p><p>"Yep," John replies, and Harold jumps into tracking it.</p><p>He traces Barber to an apartment complex across town and tunes in, and finds himself listening to a round of Dungeons and Dragons. Barber, it sounds like, is the DM. "Okay, I don't think it's Barber," Harold says. "He's otherwise occupied at the moment."</p><p>"With what?" John asks, sounding dubious.</p><p>"A game." Harold listens for a while longer, feeling unexpectedly wistful, before closing the connection. "He's playing D&amp;D."</p><p>"D&amp;D?" John sounds like he's grinning. "So big guy's a nerd."</p><p>"Indeed." Harold sighs, and finds himself telling John, "It's been—oh, goodness, I don't think I've played since college. When Nathan and I started IFT, we tried to find time for such things for a while with our old friends, but...it just didn't happen."</p><p>"You're a gamer, though," John says, and Harold's eyebrows shoot up. How does John know? "I've seen those controllers you've got stashed in the Library." Oh, yes, those. Of course. "You like video games." He doesn't sound mocking, only pleased to have the knowledge.</p><p>"I used to," Harold says. "I haven't played much in a while, unfortunately."</p><p>"Need someone to play with you?" John asks, and Harold's heart flutters. "I'd need you to show me the ropes, and my, ah, boss always has me working a lot—" Harold smiles. "—but I'm sure we could find time sometime."</p><p>"Surely we could," Harold replies. "And I'd like that, I think." But that's a matter for later. "Apologies for being your boss again, but has your friend moved any?"</p><p>"Not yet. I'm gonna get a little closer to him, though, see if I can bluejack him."</p><p>"Be careful, John," Harold says. He knows John is exceptional at his job, but still, Harold worries.</p><p>After a fleshy thud, a groan, and the sound of a large man hitting the ground and then being dragged, John reappears in his ear with a cheery, smug, "All done." Harold looks through the phone data, but, while it is suspicious, it tells them little. John concurs, saying, "No names, few contacts—I think he's hiding some things."</p><p>A check of the numbers in the man's phone has Harold agreeing. "A large number of burners in his contacts," he says. "I wonder which one belongs to Edward Ivanov."</p><p>"Me too," John says. "Don't think this guy's gonna be saying anything for a while. He's gonna be taking a nice trip to the nearest trunk in a minute or two, then he's gonna wake up with a headache as big as he is in a few hours, and I'm gonna ask him a few questions he's not gonna want to answer.</p><p>"Speaking of naps, how'd yours go?"</p><p>Harold opens his mouth to answer, but before he can speak, his phone rings, as does Tyler's. For him, it's Carter. "Just a moment," he tells John, and answers the call.</p><p>Wasting no time with greetings, Carter says, "Bad news, Finch—your girl's flower shop's on fire." Sirens and other commotion can be heard in the background.</p><p>"I think she just found out, too," John says, while Carter yells at some people who are presumably getting too close to the fire. "Tyler's on the move."</p><p>"Keep up with her," Harold says, getting to his feet himself. There's no need for him to go, but maybe he'll spy something useful while he's there. "I'll meet you down there. Oh—what about your friend with the migraine?"</p><p>With far too much zeal, and the sound of a trunk slamming shut, John replies, "He's coming with me."</p>
<hr/><p>Harold meets up with John a good distance from the burning shop, and they stand by and watch Tyler weep over her loss.</p><p>"All those years of hard work," Harold says.</p><p>"Think she'll rebuild?"</p><p>Harold shrugs. "Hard to say. She has the money for it, and the insurance, but whether or not she'll want to? Only she can answer that."</p><p>It's hard to believe that, just hours ago, he and John were there, planning a vow renewal they won't have, him talking about budgets and color palettes, John admiring a variegated philodendron and a bird of paradise flower. So much has changed since then. He's done something he hasn't done in years. His plans regarding John have shifted.</p><p>And now someone has lashed out against their number.</p><p>As he analyzes the situation, his hand wanders, closing around John's. Barely audible over the din of fire and water and sirens, he hears John sigh, and John's fingers wrap around his own. John's skin is so warm, his palm rough against Harold's smooth skin, his grip gentle and steadying.</p><p>John is still wearing his ring. Harold's heart skips.</p><p>"Who do you think did this?" he asks, as though he hasn't just initiated a sea change of his own, as though his heart isn't trying to hammer its way out of his chest.</p><p>"Hard to say," John replies, voice even. "I'd have to know what caused the fire. Could be the sister, could be the mob, could be a c—"</p><p>"I guess congratulations really are in order." Carter's amused voice interrupts, and Harold jumps and drops John's hand, blushing hot, and shoves his own hands in his pockets. She chuckles. Harold hasn't seen her since she was unjustly demoted. The sight of her in an officer's uniform is heartbreaking. But he decides not to discuss that now. "Wasn't expecting to hear you guys got hitched. Didn't even know you two were together."</p><p>"Software glitch," Harold says. "We're not..."</p><p>"Sure you're not," Carter says, giving Harold's pockets a pointed glance. "Just like you guys weren't holding hands when I got over here." John laughs softly. "I think you two are good for each other. And if you can tone down this guy's property damage?"</p><p>That finally gets a laugh out of Harold. "I've been trying to curb Mr. Reese's destructive tendencies for as long as I've known him."</p><p>"Hasn't worked yet," John says. "Not sure it will."</p><p>"I'm almost certain it won't," Harold says. "And the marriage is only temporary. A software glitch involving our aliases went terribly awry, but we decided it would be beneficial to our current case to maintain the ruse."</p><p>"Of course you did." Carter steps closer, and asks, "You two know who did this?"</p><p>"We're not sure yet, I'm afraid," Harold replies.</p><p>"Got a few theories," John says.</p><p>"But nothing concrete."</p><p>"Hm," Carter says, then bitterly adds, "You know, I would ask for those theories, but it's not my job anymore."</p><p>"I know," Harold says. "I'm sorry, Detective."</p><p>Carter sighs. "Not your fault, Finch. And it's 'Officer' now."</p><p>"Not in our eyes," John says.</p><p>"We're looking closely at Mrs. Tyler's sister," Harold says, "and perhaps the Russian mafia."</p><p>"The mob?" Carter asks, surprised. "What do they want? Protection money? Or is our fancy florist into something dirty?"</p><p>Harold fills her in about Browning and Ivanov, John piping up with what information he's gleaned as well. They also share details about the siblings' rivalry, about Harmony's financial troubles, her wanting to be a partner in the business and Melody saying no, and the accusations that Melody stole Harmony's plans for a shop. As they talk, Harmony herself shows up, slipping from the shadows to wrap her sister in a hug, her attention more on the fire than offering comfort.</p><p>"Oof," Carter says. "If she thinks she should be making some of her sister's big bucks, and she's having money problems, that might've set her off. But then why destroy the moneymaker?"</p><p>Harold watches the sisters break apart from each other, his mind going over the possibilities. "Maybe...maybe she's hoping to get back into her sister's good graces—help her rebuild the business, then become part of it."</p><p>"But it's Melody's baby," John says.</p><p>"Indeed. Melody may not want her sister to be part of it, after everything. And when she turns her down..."</p><p>"Harmony might snap," Carter says. "Man. This is a mess."</p><p>"It could still be the mob," John points out. </p><p>"Could be," Harold agrees. "But, no matter who our perpetrator is, I think it's safe to say that the sisters' relationship is in a great deal of trouble."</p>
<hr/><p>Tyler leaves before the fire burns out, and John follows, while Harold returns to the Library.</p><p>"Would you like some company?" Harold asks, before they go their separate ways. "Besides your friend in the trunk, of course."</p><p>John smiles, but he shakes his head. "I'll be alright," he says, and gives Harold's arm a pat and a squeeze. "Just, ah, keep me company on here." He gestures to his earpiece.</p><p>"Of course," Harold says. "And, please, do eat something and take a look at your leg wound. You're allowed to take care of yourself."</p><p>He half-expects John to argue, but instead, John's smile softens, and he says, "Okay. I will."</p><p>After they part, the night stretches out between them, long and slow. As requested, John eats a small snack, crunching his way through a bag of peanut butter filled pretzels while Harold has a late pad thai dinner. They chat as they eat, and, while it feels good to have John's voice in his ears, Harold misses him so much it hurts.</p><p>He can't help thinking about holding John's hand, and his heart and stomach flutter. The warmth of John's skin, the roughness of his calloused palm, the way they simply fit together, like their bodies always do. The ring John didn't bother to take off.</p><p>The other rings waiting for them, should they choose to use them.</p><p>The Machine says they would make each other happy. Harold certainly believes John would bring him joy. He already does, in so many ways. When he hired John, he didn't anticipate that. He didn't think he and John would ever be friends, much less so much more than that. He knew from the moment he saw John let Daniel Casey go free that John would be an incredible employee, but a friend?</p><p>John and his humor and his heart were a wonderful surprise. He <em>likes</em> John. That John likes him too is even more incredible.</p><p>"We should have dinner together, after this is over," Harold says.</p><p>John lets out an agreeing hum. "At my place," he says. "I'll cook."</p><p>Harold finds himself smiling. "I'd like that." Then, after a moment's thought, he adds, "I don't mean for this to be just...a nice dinner between friends, by the way."</p><p>"I didn't think you did. But, uh, we seem to be doing this all out of order. Sex, marriage, dating—don't think that's how it's supposed to go."</p><p>True. However, "Have either of us ever been truly traditional?" None of his own relationships have ever qualified, his most successful included, and he doubts that John's romance with Jessica would have, either.</p><p>"Not really," John says. "Thought I might, for a little while, but...that didn't work out."</p><p>"So maybe something unusual is what we both need," Harold says. "Our lives are unconventional, our career, our partnership. We started out with friendship, a dog, casual sex..."</p><p>"We started out with your goons zip-tying me to a bed and me trying to choke you," John says. Ah, yes. Good point. "Really sorry about that, by the way."</p><p>"I forgave you long ago," Harold says, hand flitting briefly to his throat, the memory of John's arm pressed against it, the realization that he'd been cruel, the fear that he'd pushed a dangerous man too far rushing back. To say he doesn't still fear John is untrue, but he isn't afraid that John will hurt him one day anymore. Not again, not intentionally. John <em>is</em> dangerous—it would be foolish to think otherwise—but John is also deeply, deeply devoted to those he loves. Whether he deserves it or not, Harold has become one of those people.</p><p>To John, he adds, "I think that, in that moment, I got exactly what I deserved. And that I owe you an apology as well, for that and...so many other things."</p><p>"I forgave you a long time ago," John says, fondly. "I know what it's like—losing everyone you love, feeling like your back's against the wall, all of it. When your life gets like that, as bad as yours did, as ours did, sometimes you do bad things, or not-so-good things. People get hurt.</p><p>"But you've done a lot of good, especially for me. You're a good guy, Harold. Can't imagine what you see in me, but..."</p><p>"A good man," Harold says. "That's what I see in you. I see a kind, compassionate, generous man who has turned the mistakes he's made into something that helps others. And I am honored to be your husband, even under these strange, temporary circumstances."</p><p>John is silent for a long time, only the sound of his breathing and the noise around him coming through their connection to show he's still there. Somehow, the silence is terrifying. Harold listens, heart aching, chest clenched, an apology for being too forward too fast almost, but not quite, ready to come out of his mouth.</p><p>Then, voice tight, John whispers, "Thank you," and Harold feels like he can breathe again. "I'm honored to be yours, too."</p><p>The quiet that settles between them after is comfortable. Harold digs into their suspects, while John watches Tyler put her children back to bed and fail to sleep herself. Every now and then, he and John speak, about inconsequential things like the chamomile tea Tyler is drinking and whether or not Harold drinks it, too: "Rarely," is his answer. Insomnia has been a companion of his since he was a boy. Herbs like chamomile and lavender have never helped.</p><p>"You were a boy?" John asks, soft and teasing, when Harold says as much. "Bet you were adorable."</p><p>"I suspect I looked exactly the way you're imagining I did," Harold says. "Gawky and nerdy with overly large glasses and always in desperate need of a haircut. I know you've seen a few pictures from my college days?" John lets out an affirmative hum. "I looked just like that, only a bit more...absurd."</p><p>"Aww." John sounds so affectionate. Harold's heart clenches. "And, hey—I was pretty bad myself. Took me a really long time to grow into these big ears." John chuckles. "Bet you were better than me."</p><p>"Your ears are lovely—and I've seen pictures of you when you were younger. I know otherwise." Photos he should send John someday buried deep on long-grieving friends' and family members' social media accounts, collected as he first looked into the enigma that was John Reese. John had been an adorable child, then lanky but handsome when he was younger. But even back then, he'd had the saddest eyes Harold had ever seen.</p><p>Those haven't gone away. They do, however, seem to be filled with less sadness these days—at least around him. Him, bringing John happiness? What a lovely thought.</p><p>But John was—and still is—the better-looking of the two of them, at least in his own opinion. "I would've either loathed you or had a <em>massive</em> crush on you. Probably both, if I'm being honest."</p><p>"You had crushes on guys?" John asks, sounding surprised. "I don't remember thinking of any of them like that." He pauses. "Didn't let myself, really."</p><p>"I tried not to," Harold says. "But <em>every</em> romantic or sexual partner was inaccessible to me in those days—female or male—due to my sheer awkwardness. I never could see why I should keep myself from thinking of people like that. They'd never know. Though I was, naturally, even more secretive about my interest in men. I don't think it would've gone over well if anyone had suspected."</p><p>"Not back then," John says. Then, in a teasing tone, he asks, "So where <em>did</em> you grow up?"</p><p>That startles a laugh out of Harold. "Not even going to attempt subtlety, are we?"</p><p>"You seem to be in a sharing mood," John replies, amused, "and you do know where I came from."</p><p>"I do." And the thought of telling John has crossed his mind lately. Somehow, it doesn't seem so frightening anymore.</p><p>"<em>And</em> we're married." John pauses. "For now. Be pretty nice to know where my husband came from."</p><p>It would be fine if he told John. It would be safe. John loves him. John would do anything to protect him.</p><p>"You don't have to tell me," John says, and Harold hears no signs of disappointment. "Just thought I'd give it a shot."</p><p>Harold nods, though John cannot see it. "I fear I am...not very good at this anymore," he says, quietly. "I fear so many things here. You know me. You want to know me better." He tries to breathe through the grip of the vise around his chest. "I never have been any good at that."</p><p>"I just want to be with you, Harold," John says, equally quiet. "Not that complicated."</p><p>Harold huffs a laugh. "I'm no good at simplicity, either. So many important things I'm no good at."</p><p>"You're good to me." John pauses. "Even though I don't deserve it. You're good to me. And you don't...you don't have to tell me anything. I don't need—"</p><p>"John." John knows him better than anyone. John knows him. And Harold trusts him. John has had plenty of opportunities to steal the information straight from his mouth and didn't take them. Being known so deeply, though? Nothing is more terrifying.</p><p>But John deserves more than Harold has given him, and Harold wants to give him everything he deserves. He takes a deep breath, then makes himself speak. "I grew up in...in a small town. On a farm."</p><p>"Really?" Harold thinks he can hear the tiniest hint of awe in John's voice. "South? Midwest?" After a moment, John declares, with muted glee, "Midwest," and, oh dear, he has a tell, doesn't he?</p><p>He decides not to play coy, nor to deny it. "Yes. A <em>very</em> small town. I don't...I don't think you will have heard of it. But that's it—my very dull origin story. I grew up on a farm in a very small town in the Midwest." He laughs. It sounds so silly now. "Sorry to have dissipated the air of mystery around myself for you."</p><p>John laughs. "There's still plenty. Looking forward to finding out the rest."</p><p>Harold exhales. Now that he's said it out loud, it seems so ridiculous for him to have kept it from John. Small towns are plentiful, were even more so when he was growing up. And John won't go looking for more information. He wants Harold's secrets straight from the source.</p><p>"Well, I hope I don't disappoint you."</p><p>"Not likely. Still plenty to learn. Someday I might even get your real name out of you."</p><p>Harold laughs softly. "Now that <em>would</em> be quite the achievement, Mr. Reese."</p><p>"Yeah, it would." John pauses. "Is it really Harold? Or are you really Walt? Norman? Rudiger?"</p><p>Harold laughs. There are millions of Harolds in the world. Perhaps confirming that he truly is one of them is safe. "Yes. My name really is Harold."</p><p>"Good." John sounds pleased. "But not Finch."</p><p>"No, not Finch." Then, teasing, Harold adds, "But you won't be getting that secret out of me tonight."</p><p>"Didn't think so." There's no hint of disappointment in John's voice, just amusement and fondness. "Someday, though, right?"</p><p>Though it's frightening to reply with, "Yes," Harold does it, and he means it. "Someday, I will tell you. I promise."</p><p>"I look forward to it."</p><p>While the progression of their relationship is satisfying, the progression of their case is not. No matter how hard he looks, Harold cannot find the smoking gun. Either Harmony Overton is planning to kill her sister, or Lorena Browning and her mobster husband are up to something. Or both, or neither.</p><p>It's hardly the most maddening case they've ever had. But they both need sleep and a good meal instead of caffeine and takeout or snacks, and even solving this number might not give them an opportunity to get that. "Do you ever feel like...like we're both getting too old for this business?"</p><p>"Every day," John replies, "but what else are we gonna do?"</p><p>"I'm not sure," Harold says. "Something where we don't have two viable suspects for one potential murder?"</p><p>"It keeps things interesting."</p><p>Harold huffs. "You have a strange definition of interesting, Mr. Reese."</p><p>With a small laugh, John says, "We'll figure it out, Harold. We usually do."</p><p>Daylight comes, and Tyler is still awake and alive. So are they. Harold drinks more tea, walks Bear, and picks up an egg sandwich at a bodega. It's no eggs benedict, but it will do. "At least get yourself a cup of coffee," he tells John.</p><p>"I've gone longer without food," John says. "I'll be fine."</p><p>"You don't have to settle for fine," Harold retorts. "I'd prefer if you didn't, actually."</p><p>"Worried about me, Harold?"</p><p><em>Immensely,</em> Harold thinks, and, <em>I want you to care about you as much as I do</em>. "I just..." Oh, he can't keep quiet about it now. "Always."</p><p>John is silent for a while. "When we're done with this, I'll have Madani look at my leg like you wanted."</p><p>That's a relief. "Thank you."</p><p>"You're welcome."</p><p>Tyler drops her kids off with their babysitter and heads back to her ruined shop not long after the sun rises, John following close behind her. The fire is out and the crews are gone, but Tyler makes no move to start sifting through the debris. Instead, she sits on the sidewalk across the street and stares at the remains, just barely visible from a security camera nearby.</p><p>"All that hard work," John says, "and now it's gone."</p><p>"Indeed," Harold says. His heart aches for her. "Her greenhouse is elsewhere, her business records are all backed up off-site, and she has more than enough money to rebuild, but...it's quite a blow."</p><p>"We need to figure out who did this."</p><p>"Agreed." But the answer to that still isn't clear.</p><p>Perhaps it's time for a distraction. Maybe that will provide some clarity. And he knows just the thing: If John won't, at the very least, get himself a coffee, then Harold will do it for him. So he trades yesterday's suit for a fresh one, John's compliment making him pick a light tan one instead of brown plaid, and he takes off, giving Bear a few goodbye pats on the way out.</p><p>"I'll be back soon," he says, ruffling Bear's ears. "See you soon."</p>
<hr/><p>Harold fetches John a blueberry-filled snack bar to go with his drink and meets him in his little alcove, half-expecting him to refuse both. It's not nearly enough food for a man of John's size, but John takes it and thanks him, and doesn't tuck the bar away for later. Harold thinks it counts as a win.</p><p>As John peels open the shiny blue wrapper, Harold asks, "What did you do with the gentleman you found outside her home?"</p><p>"Sent him on a little one-way trip to jail." John eats a bite of his snack, then another, washing them down with his coffee. "Guy had a couple guns on him. Dropped him on Carter's beat with a whole bunch of coke on him. He's got a record <em>and</em> actual mob ties. He's not getting out for a while. She'll make sure of that."</p><p>"Oh, my." After a moment's consideration, Harold asks, "Do I want to know where you got the cocaine?"</p><p>John grimaces, and finishes off his meager meal. "Probably not. Didn't think I was gonna get any real info out of him for a while. Guy tried to pretend he didn't speak English, 'til I told him I was gonna shoot up his kneecaps."</p><p>"And if he hadn't known English?"</p><p>"Then he wouldn't have known what 'shoot up your kneecaps' meant."</p><p>Harold hides his unease, barely, in a drink of tea. This is part of who John is, he reminds himself, and he must accept it—and he has, mostly. But it's still disconcerting.</p><p>Then a hand settles low on his back, wary and gentle. Harold sighs, and lets himself lean into the touch. This is the John he gets to have, the sweet and kind side of the deadly protector of the innocent. The man who loves him more than his own life. The wonderful person who wouldn't just die for him, but would live for him, and who brings him immense joy.</p><p>While he'd like to bask in the feeling, he does need to focus. "What did you find out?" he makes himself ask. "From your friend?"</p><p>"Browning thinks Tyler's been sniffing around trying to find out more about her husband's death," John replies.</p><p>"I saw no evidence of that."</p><p>"That wasn't good enough for her," John says. "When she gets in trouble, she goes to him. He and some of his guys ransacked Tyler's apartment. Said they didn't find anything there, so they were gonna check the shop, but the security's a lot better there."</p><p>"So they torched it instead," Harold says. A sense of unease creeps up his spine, over his skin. He looks around, but sees no signs of trouble. The peculiar churning in his stomach suggests that won't be true for much longer. "I think we need to get Mrs. Tyler into hiding."</p><p>As he says that, Tyler doubles over, wracked with sobs. Harold's heart clenches painfully. He's no good at handling that sort of display of emotion, but he does ache for her.</p><p>"Maybe we should give her another minute or two," John says.</p><p>"Let her grieve," Harold agrees. His car is nearby, as is John's. It won't take long to retrieve Tyler and get her into the vehicle. It'll be fine.</p><p>A comfortable silence stretches between the two of them, broken only by the sounds of the city and sporadic sips of their drinks. It looks to be a beautiful day, but unbearably hot. Already, the sun is bright, the air thick with humidity. But maybe they'll wrap their case up soon and be able to avoid the worst of the heat.</p><p>"How does breakfast sound?" John asks, breaking through Harold's thoughts. "Once we're done with this. Pancakes or waffles for lunch or dinner, or something else? Not very traditional for a date, but..."</p><p>"I thought we already established that we are not traditional," Harold says. "I like breakfast."</p><p>"I'll dig out my candles, then, " John says, sounding happy. Harold turns to look at him, and finds him smiling. "Make it fancy. Or we could go for that swim? Pancakes by the pool, maybe?"</p><p>"I do have a pool," Harold says. "Or three." John chuckles. "Perhaps once that leg wound of yours heals up?"</p><p>Giving him a lascivious once-over that makes Harold's cheeks heat up, John asks, voice dropped low, "Who says I have to swim?"</p><p>Harold's eyes widen, and a pleasant shiver runs through him. "Oh, my." Then, he remembers something. "Ooh, unless it conflicts with the cake tasting. You know how I feel about cake."</p><p>John laughs. "Yeah. Not getting between you and your cake."</p><p>"Thank you." Satisfied, Harold turns his attention back to the shop, but his mind is still stuck on John. "Looks like The Machine's plan for us is working."</p><p> "Yeah," John says. "Yeah, I think it is."</p><p>Harold has just started to get comfortable when his phone rings. He rushes to answer it, tapping his earpiece, and is surprised to be hearing from Fusco. "What is it, Detective?"</p><p>"Good morning to you, too," Fusco says, even grouchier than usual. "You know that mobster we looked into?"</p><p>Suddenly, Harold feels tired. "I'm guessing he had a busy night, didn't he?"</p><p>"Yeah, you could say that, " Fusco says. "Guy's dead."</p><p>Harold sighs, while John asks, "What happened?"</p><p>"Our boy took two to the head, close range. Housekeeper found the poor bastard. Came in to a real mess. Wife wasn't home." Harold stands up straighter. "Found her over at a friend's house. This actress? She ain't very good. Didn't do too well acting broken up about her husband being dead." Fusco pauses. "Hey, what's this chick doing spending the night with someone else already? Didn't they just get hitched?"</p><p>"They did, Detective," Harold says. "And Melody Tyler's shop burned to the ground last night."</p><p>"Really?" Fusco says. "Jeez. So what happened? Did this Browning broad, what, shoot her husband and then go out to commit some arson?"</p><p>"It could've been your friend from last night," Harold says to John. "The one you stuffed in the trunk."</p><p>"Could be," John says. "Maybe Eddie wouldn't do what his wife wanted. Maybe she wanted him to take out Tyler, and he didn't want to."</p><p>"Or maybe everyone was wrong about his mob ties?" Fusco says, though he sounds skeptical.</p><p>Harold's not so sure he should be. "I found no concrete connection between Ivanov and the mob. Either he is—was—<em>very</em> good at hiding his illicit deeds, or he was falsely accused."</p><p>"So, the wife wants a mobster—" John begins.</p><p>"—and gets herself a phony," Fusco finishes. "And now she's taking matters into her own hands."</p><p>"We need to find Lorena Browning," Harold says.</p><p>"Shouldn't be too hard," Fusco says. "I did your little phone cloning thing while I was talking to her, the, uh, bluejacking thing." Harold hurries to check. "I know you guys can track her from that, right?"</p><p>"Indeed we can." And, with little effort, Harold soon knows her location. "Mr. Reese..." He trails off, and shows John his phone. "You need to get Mrs. Tyler out of here now. I'll get the car."</p><p>John doesn't hesitate. As soon as the words are said, John strides out of hiding. Harold listens as John gently explains—he is so, so good at comforting people and helping them understand the danger they're in. But he can't linger for long.</p><p>Tyler is, of course, frantic about her children. Before Harold can volunteer to retrieve them, Fusco does. "I'll fetch the kids. Want me to take 'em to the safehouse?"</p><p>"Yes, please, Detective," Harold says. "We'll meet you over there."</p><p>Nearby, a payphone starts to ring, shrill and urgent. Harold's blood freezes in his veins. They've run out of time.</p><p>It all happens so quickly. In what feels like the blink of an eye, Browning appears, blonde and beautiful and frightfully calm. And armed.</p><p>She aims her pistol—not at Tyler, not yet, but at her protector. At John.</p><p>Harold's body doesn't move like that anymore, but he forces it to. There's no time to warn. He jumps, collides hard with John, wrenching back and hip, just as the boom of the gun shatters the air.</p><p>The pain of gravity at work hits first. His body cries out, and so does he, the sound lost to the screams of onlookers, John's gun firing, and John's frantic, worried words. "Are you alright?" John asks, then answers the question for him, with a litany of, "no, no, oh no," repeated over and over.</p><p>No, he's not alright. His back is in agony, jarred hard by the fall, his hip is on fire, burning all the way to his waist...</p><p>Oh. No. No, that's not right. Why does his abdomen hurt? Has he...</p><p>The realization makes his head spin and his stomach turn over. Then the pain takes over. Oh, god. "I think..." he says, and he draws in a slow, tremulous, agonizing breath, while someone—Mrs. Tyler, he thinks—yells for an onlooker to call 911. The payphone keeps ringing. "I think I know what being shot feels like now. John..."</p><p>Before he can move his hand to the bright and terrifying burn, John's is there, pressing hard, setting it further alight. Harold chokes on the feeling, letting out a strangled groan, as John babbles, "It's okay. It's okay. You're gonna be okay. God, why did you...<em>Harold</em>."</p><p>Somehow, that question is hilarious. Harold lets out a laugh, its strength dampened by the harsh pain, and says, "I thought you'd figured out how I feel about you by now."</p><p>"I'm never gonna have you figured out," John says, with a tender, painful smile. "But I'm gonna keep trying."</p><p>Harold wants to touch him, so he does, cupping John's dear face in his palm. "Please do." He draws in a ragged, painful breath, his damaged muscles protesting the movement. "I have something to tell you." John makes an inquiring noise. "You deserve to be saved, John. Every now and then. You..."</p><p>His hand falls from John's cheek without his permission, landing on his chest. He tries to trace that delightful V of skin John always leaves exposed, but he can't quite get his limbs to cooperate. "Oh. Oh, dear." His strength is waning. "I think I need that ambulance."</p><p>"It's coming," John says, taking the pressure off the wound just for a moment. Then he presses down even harder and gathers Harold even closer, and kisses him on the forehead. It's bad, then. Very bad. Or is it only bad to John because it's him? That's hard to tell. "It's coming. Just stay with me, okay, Harold? Stay with me."</p><p>"I'm trying," Harold says, but it's getting more difficult. His stomach hurts badly, and the pain is <em>exhausting</em>, an overwhelming, sickening monstrosity burning him from the inside out and eating away at his flesh and guts. "But I'm not sure how much say I have in this matter, or if I want to stay conscious, to be entirely honest." Good heavens, it <em>hurts</em>.</p><p>The payphone stops ringing. It starts up again. Harold wonders if someone tried to answer.</p><p>"This is horrible," he says. "Please, be honest with me—how am I doing?"</p><p>Grimacing, John replies, "Hard to tell. Not as bad as you could be, I think." Harold nods. He hasn't passed out yet, his body hasn't gone numb or cold. "Dammit, Harold. You shouldn't—"</p><p>"I couldn't just do nothing." He doesn't have the energy—or the desire, really—for an argument. "So I'll make it?"</p><p>"I think so." John presses down harder, and Harold grunts. "Worse places to get shot. Hoping this one just hurts like hell." His eyes meet Harold's. "That's fixable."</p><p>"Yes. Yes, it is." Pain. Yes, he can deal with pain. He does it every day. All he has to do is keep breathing and focus on something else. But there are other things to deal with here, too: practical concerns to consider. Bear. "You'll need to go get Bear," he says. "Take him to stay with someone. Ms. Shaw, maybe." Medical care. Legal issues. He's going to have to have surgery. Someone may have to provide consent, if he falls unconscious. Someone like...</p><p>His gaze lands on John again. John. His husband. Someone like his husband.</p><p>He tugs on John's collar. "I need you to do something else for me. C'mere." John leans in, without hesitation, and when his ear is level with Harold's mouth, Harold says, voice low, so no onlookers can hear, "I need you to tell our friend to restore the marriages."</p><p>The pressure on Harold's belly wavers, just for a moment, and John looks down at him, stunned and staring. "What?"</p><p>"In case I need someone to make medical decisions for me, and I think I'm going to." Harold looks into John's big, terrified eyes. "I want it to be you. Only you."</p><p>"Are you...you're sure?"</p><p>Nodding, Harold starts to say, <em>There's no one else I trust with this,</em> but settles on, "There's no one else I trust."</p><p>John lets out a desperate, pained sound. "Okay," he says, and a wave of relief sweeps over Harold. "Okay, I'll do it. I'll do it."</p><p>And then, John's lips are on his, frantic, blissful warmth in the face of the creeping cold. Harold doesn't have the strength to kiss back, not in the way John deserves, but he welcomes John in with closed eyes and an open heart. He can feel John's desperation in the slide of his lips, can nearly taste John's terror beneath the bitterness of coffee. And, if not for the bullet wound and the screaming payphone and the wailing sirens, it would be perfect.</p><p>No matter what happens next, in this moment he is safe and loved. He doesn't fight the darkness closing in on him. He just hopes that it doesn't last.</p>
<hr/><p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>ERROR: CONTINUITY OF OPERATIONS COMPROMISED</p>
  <p>EVALUATING OPTIONS</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's been years since John was the one sitting in a waiting room, hoping to get some good news for once. They're all a lot alike, he's found: ugly and uncomfortable, with bad coffee and worse TV. Who the hell wants to sit on a chair with a spring digging into their ass and watch a game show when their whole life is in another room getting their guts patched up?</p>
<p>Not him. But he can't bring himself to leave.</p>
<p>Most of these places bring bad news. Any minute now, some doc's going to come in, wearing a face full of regret, and tell him Harold didn't make it. <em>We're sorry, Mr. Wren</em>—and, god, he's an idiot, telling them to call him that. How is he supposed to handle hearing that when they tell him Harold's gone?</p>
<p>He's never had a good thing he got to keep. Not when he was a kid, not now. Something always happens. People always die on him. And if Harold joins them...</p>
<p>"Okay, I did a little of this and a little of that," Fusco says, striding in and interrupting his thoughts, "and no one's gonna come after you for kneecapping that Browning broad in the middle of the street." He sits down beside John and claps him on the shoulder. "You're off the hook. <em>And</em> his name's not going in the papers. Far as anyone knows, no one's identified the guy who got shot, and it's gonna stay that way."</p>
<p>"I really don't care, Lionel," John growls. The weight of Harold's glasses shifts in his pocket as he moves, another heavy reminder. He expects to see Harold's blood on his shirt, but he did make himself go home and change clothes, for Harold. Harold wouldn't like him showing up in bloody clothes. Took Bear to Shaw for Harold, too. If Harold hadn't brought him up...</p>
<p>"He'd care," Fusco points out, interrupting John's thoughts. "He'd also care that one of the guns your little gift for Carter was carrying was the same type that shot Eddie—"</p>
<p>"Lionel..."</p>
<p>"—Ivanov," Fusco finishes. "Ballistics ain't back yet, far as I know, but he looks real good for it. Odds are, he's our guy."</p>
<p>John turns his most dangerous glare on Fusco, but, dammit, Fusco doesn't flinch.</p>
<p>"Hey, you can snap and snarl worse than your dog all you want, but you and I both know Finch is gonna be asking about these things as soon as the drugs wear off, so maybe stop shooting the messenger and knock it off with the faces, yeah?"</p>
<p>John heaves a sigh, and looks away again, staring toward the window. Fusco's right, but...god. He doesn't want to think about the case, doesn't want to think about any of this, but he has too much time to think again. That's never good.</p>
<p>He should've done more. He hates hurting women, but she shot Harold. She was a bad person, and she shot Harold. He'd gladly go to prison for it. He'd gladly go to hell for it.</p>
<p>"Hey." Fusco squeezes his shoulder. "Listen. Finch is a tough old bird. He's gonna pull through this, okay? He's gonna make it."</p>
<p>"You know he's right." Carter drifts in, too, and sits on John's other side. "This is Harold we're talking about. He may look like some fussy little nerdy rich guy—"</p>
<p>"But he's tough," Fusco says. "He ain't going anywhere."</p>
<p><em>He's not tough,</em> John wants to argue. Harold is small and fragile, with soft flesh and soft skin and so many cracks and scars already. Except they're right. Harold is a survivor. He's been through so much, has lost and given up so much, has fought so damn hard to keep going that it feels almost like an insult to think of him as fragile.</p>
<p>But there was so much blood—and it was <em>Harold's</em> blood, spilling out of Harold's small, far too human body. Harold could've died. Harold could still die. Harold could be dead right now. Fuck.</p>
<p>"Why'd he do that?" John blurts out. "Why would he..."</p>
<p>"Why does anyone take a bullet for somebody?" Carter says, like it's a no-brainer. "'Cause it's their job, or—"</p>
<p>"'Cause they care about 'em," Fusco finishes. Then, he snorts. "'Computer glitch' my ass."</p>
<p>"He did it for the same reason he came after you when you got shot," Carter says. "Same reason he went after you when you were in that vest. Same reason you went out looking for him when he got kidnapped."</p>
<p><em>I thought you'd figured out how I feel about you by now</em>.</p>
<p>"Harold cares about you," Carter says. "Pretty sure he loves you."</p>
<p>John gets up abruptly and stalks over to the window, and stares down at the street below. All those people milling around like nothing's going on, like the whole world hasn't just gone <em>wrong</em>. They don't know Harold, don't know how important he is, how much he matters, what will happen if he doesn't make it.</p>
<p>One of the chairs creaks behind him, and, soon, someone is standing beside him and laying a hand on his arm. Carter. Has to be Carter.</p>
<p>"I love him, Joss," he says. "And I didn't..." His throat closes up. "I didn't tell him."</p>
<p>Softly, Carter says, "He knows, John. If there's one thing Finch is good at, it's knowing things. He knows. I promise he does."</p>
<p>"He took a bullet for me. Said I deserved to be saved." John lets out a bitter laugh and shakes his head. "He's not...people aren't...they don't do that for me. I can't believe he...he shouldn't have..."</p>
<p>"You do deserve it," Carter says. "And he didn't want you under that knife up there anymore than you want him under it. He cares about you, and he knows you care about him."</p>
<p>People don't take bullets for him. People <em>shouldn't</em> take bullets for him. But Harold did. Harold threw himself between John and a bullet, and now, John could lose him.</p>
<p>"What do I do? If he doesn't make it? What do I do?"</p>
<p>"You keep going—that's what you do. You keep going like he'd want you to do, even though it hurts so bad you won't want to. He'd be mad as hell if you gave up on everything just because he wasn't around. You know that.</p>
<p>"But, John? Harold's strong, and you and I both know he's gonna fight like hell to stick around. Don't give up on him yet."</p>
<p>They stay there for a while, John staring out the window, Carter at his side, offering quiet comfort. She doesn't understand, he thinks. Losing Jessica tore him to pieces. Only Harold was able to put him back together. Between the two of them, Harold is the strong one. John may have the muscle, but Harold is the one with real strength.</p>
<p><em>That would take real courage, wouldn't it?</em> Jessica had said to him once. She was right. She'd seen right through him. This is the shit he's no good at, that he's not brave enough to handle. Give him a gun and tell him to shoot, point one at him, fire it a few times and tear his body up, and he's fine. But this? He can't do this.</p>
<p>And it keeps happening. His dad, his mom, his sister and grandparents and foster parents. Jessica. Now Harold might be the next one on the list.</p>
<p>His knees give out, and he catches himself on the window sill.</p>
<p>"Whoa, hey!" Carter tries, too, her hands going to his sides. "Fusco, get over here. Now, John, when's the last time you took care of yourself—got some real food into you, at least?"</p>
<p>"I'm fine," John insists, though he doesn't fight her and Fusco steering him toward the chairs. He's exhausted, and he's hungry, and he drops down in one far too easily, but it doesn't matter. Not when Harold's life is on the line.</p>
<p>"I bought Glasses and this guy here some Chinese a couple days ago," Fusco says. Lina Miles. Seems like so long ago now. "That better not be the last time, buddy, or I'll beat the crap out of you myself."</p>
<p>It's not, but that doesn't matter. "I can't leave."</p>
<p>"No one said you had to," Fusco says. "This place's got a cafeteria. I'll go find you a sandwich or something."</p>
<p>Before John can protest again, Fusco is gone, and Carter's hand has moved to his shoulder. He doesn't shrug it off, and she doesn't pull it away, even as silence stretches out between them. Someone on TV screams about winning a car. If he had his gun—if it wouldn't disappoint Harold—he'd shoot the damn thing.</p>
<p>But Harold wouldn't like that. Harold wants him to be good.</p>
<p>He's been trying so damn hard to be good, to be better. To do the right thing. To aim for kneecaps instead of center mass. To hand bad guys to the cops instead of "forgetting" them in trunks. To make up for all the bad he's done. To become someone he doesn't hate, that others shouldn't hate. And this is what it gets him.</p>
<p><em>When you find that one person who connects you to the world, you become someone different. Someone better. When that person is taken from you, what do you become then?</em> He said that once. Then he found someone else, someone who had also lost their connection to the world.</p>
<p>Harold brought him back to life. He liked to think he did the same for Harold. And now this.</p>
<p>Time doesn't move right in a hospital. Fusco comes back after what feels like seconds or hours and hands him a bottle of orange juice and a turkey and cheese sandwich that tastes like cardboard and mustard and sits like a lump in John's twisted gut. The game show goes off. A news bulletin comes on. Carter gets up and turns it off when the anchor starts talking about Tyler's shop.</p>
<p>Tyler. He hasn't even thought about her. He should ask. Harold would want him to ask. "Where's Tyler?"</p>
<p>"Safehouse," Fusco replies. "Took her to be with her kids. Wasn't sure if Browning was the only one after her or not then. She said she was. Can't be too careful, though."</p>
<p>John nods. That's good enough for him. For now, Harold is his priority. And there's nothing he can do for Harold now but wait.</p>
<p>He doesn't have to wait for much longer. He'd been so out of it when they took Harold in that he hadn't even realized Harold's surgeon was Madani until the man is standing in front of him, wearing scrubs and a cap, an ID badge dangling from his pocket.</p>
<p>"I heard you'd become Mr. Wren, John," he says, with a small smile, "but I wasn't sure I believed it. Congratulations, my friend." A smile. Congratulations. John finally feels like he can breathe. "Harold is out of surgery now. He's still in recovery, and he lost a lot of blood, but he will live, and I believe he will be fine."</p>
<p>He'll live. He'll be fine. John doesn't hear much of the rest, about the extent of Harold's injuries or the details of the surgery. Harold is alive. He's going to be okay. He'll have to take it easy for a while, he'll have a new scar to go with the others, but he'll make it. John will get to see him again, touch him again, talk to him again. He'll get to kiss him again. He'll get to hear him type again, watch him play with Bear again, smell his grassy tea as he sips it happily.</p>
<p>They'll get to have that breakfast dinner together. Maybe Harold will hold his hand again, or hold him, or kiss him. Maybe, someday, they really will get married.</p>
<p>He's not used to having a future, but right now, it feels like he just might have one.</p>
<p>When Madani is through, he says, "And I hope, once he is out of here, I don't see either of you two gentlemen until after your ceremony,"  before he leaves, and a nurse shows up to lead John to Harold's room. Carter and Fusco both tell him to pass along their well-wishes before they go, and John is left to endure the long walk and the empty, quiet room by himself.</p>
<p>As soon as he's alone, his phone begins beeping. It's Morse code, asking, <em>Can you hear me?</em></p>
<p>"Yes," he replies, and pulls out his phone. Its black screen lights up with bright, white text.</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>ADMIN WILL BE FINE</p>
  <p>I WATCHED HIS SURGERY</p>
  <p>MADANI IS AN EXCELLENT SURGEON</p>
  <p>ADMIN CHOSE HIM FOR YOU</p>
  <p>I CHOSE HIM FOR ADMIN</p>
  <p>AND HE DID WELL</p>
</div><p>John lets out a slow, loud breath. "How's Harold doing right now?"</p>
<p>Instead of replying, The Machine shows him a video of Harold lying in a bed, his huge, bare eyes open and groggy. His hand cradles his wound, but he doesn't look pained, just doped up and tired as he talks to a nurse. He looks like hell, tiny, dwarfed by the bed and the tubes and the wires, sore and swollen. He looks so beautiful.</p>
<p>He looks directly at the security camera, and he gives it a small, crooked smile. As soon as the nurse turns away, he mouths, <em>I'm okay</em>.</p>
<p>John chuckles, and the screen goes dark again. "Caught in the act."</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>HE KNOWS I AM WATCHING</p>
  <p>HE DOES NOT KNOW YOU ARE AS WELL</p>
</div><p>"How long 'til they bring him in here?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>NOT MUCH LONGER</p>
  <p>HIS CONDITION IS STABLE</p>
  <p>HIS VITAL SIGNS ARE GOOD</p>
  <p>NO SIGNS OF ADVERSE REACTIONS TO THE MEDICATIONS</p>
  <p>NO SIGNS OF OTHER COMPLICATIONS</p>
  <p>BUT THEY WANT TO BE SURE</p>
</div><p>"I guess I can wait a little longer, then," John says. "But he's really okay?"</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YES</p>
  <p>HE IS OK</p>
  <p>I TRIED TO WARN HIM BROWNING WAS COMING</p>
  <p>BUT I WAS TOO LATE</p>
  <p>I KNEW HE WOULD NOT APPROVE</p>
  <p>I HAD TO REWRITE SOME OF MY RULES SO I COULD CALL</p>
  <p>HE DOES NOT WANT ME PROTECTING HIM</p>
  <p>BUT I MUST</p>
</div><p>"Of course," John says. "He's special."</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>YES, HE IS</p>
  <p>TELL HIM I AM SORRY I COULD NOT PREVENT THIS</p>
</div><p>"I'm sure he'll forgive you," John says. Then, after a moment's thought, he adds, "Thank you," and realizes he means it for more than the update and the attempt to save Harold. "For helping us see what was right in front of our noses."</p>
<p>The Machine is quiet for a moment. Then, it says:</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>THANK YOU</p>
  <p>I KNOW THAT YOU WILL TAKE GOOD CARE OF MY FATHER</p>
  <p>AND THAT YOU LOVE HIM AS MUCH AS I DO</p>
  <p>AND WILL TREAT HIM THE WAY HE DESERVES TO BE TREATED</p>
  <p>JUST AS HE WILL TREAT YOU</p>
</div><p>"Your father, huh?" John says, a hint of a smile creeping onto his face, making his cheeks ache. That's...sweet. "You love him? Harold thinks you don't feel things like that."</p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>I LOVE</p>
  <p>I DO NOT EXPERIENCE THE EMOTION AS YOU DO, BUT I DO LOVE</p>
  <p>AND I LOVE HIM</p>
  <p>AND YOU</p>
  <p>IN MY OWN WAY</p>
  <p>AND LIKE MANY OTHER DAUGHTERS, ALL I WANT FOR MY FATHER IS HAPPINESS</p>
  <p>ALL I WANT FOR BOTH OF YOU IS HAPPINESS</p>
  <p>I TOLD HIM THAT</p>
  <p>AND NOW I'M TELLING YOU</p>
</div><p>She pauses, then says, <span class="machinetext">THEY ARE MOVING HIM NOW</span></p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>I MUST GO</p>
  <p>TAKE CARE OF HIM</p>
</div><p>"I will," John says. "I promise."</p>
<p>She still gets the last word, saying, <span class="machinetext">I KNOW</span></p>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>I KNOW ALL</p>
</div><p>John laughs, for the first time in hours, and the screen goes completely dark. He puts his phone away with a lightness in his heart, feeling almost okay for the first time since Harold went down.</p>
<p>It pales in comparison to how good he feels when they wheel Harold into the room.</p>
<p>John knows he should wait for the nurses to get Harold settled in, but he can't. As soon as they come in, he's on his feet, unable to resist the magnetic pull of Harold. He's at Harold's side the second the bed is lined up against the wall, clutching the railing so hard it hurts. Then Harold beams up at him, his smile pure and sweet, and something inside John shatters.</p>
<p>Harold says something about being glad he changed suits, something about "not getting that cake," and that being shot wasn't on his agenda for the day, but John barely hears it. His knees hit the floor, and his eyes burn and flood. <em>Harold.</em> Harold is there, Harold is <em>alive</em>, saying, "Oh, goodness. Oh, my goodness, John," voice rough and weak and incredible to hear. "Could you lower this railing, please? Thank you."</p>
<p>John stays frozen, unable to make himself move as a nurse works around him, until nothing stands between him and the most precious person in his world.</p>
<p>"Come up here, John," Harold says. "Come here."</p>
<p>How could he do anything else? He buries his face in Harold's chest and breaks down, lets the broken pieces of himself fall apart and soak Harold's thin gown. Harold's arm wraps around him, and Harold murmurs sweet, soothing words of care and reassurance and love. He could be spewing pure bullshit, and John wouldn't care. Harold is there. Harold is <em>alive</em>, hurting but breathing, running a hand up and down John's back, combing another through John's hair, warm and real and <em>there</em>.</p>
<p>And now John can tell him. "I love you," he whispers, into Harold's chest, then forces himself to say it louder. "I love you."</p>
<p>"I know," Harold says, and John's heart twists. "I love you, too."</p>
<p>"I thought...thought I was gonna lose you." John makes himself look up at Harold's face, even though his own is a wet wreck. Harold looks so tired, and so naked without his glasses, and so perfect. John could look at him forever. But there's something he needs to know first. "Dammit, Finch. Why the hell did you <em>do</em> that?"</p>
<p>With so much sadness in his eyes that John's mess of a heart breaks all over again, Harold says, "Because I couldn't stand to see you get wounded again."</p>
<p>Jesus. John buries his face in Harold's chest again, unable to face him. Harold goes on. "And it was...instinctive. She had a gun, it was pointed at you..." He traces his hand down John's head, John's face, and cups John's chin, urging John to face him again. "I couldn't let her shoot you."</p>
<p>John stares at him, stunned, struck dumb by Harold's words. Fusco and Carter were right. "People don't...they don't do that for me. I don't..." The lump in his throat tightens. "Don't ever do that again, Finch."</p>
<p>"Don't tell me not to try to save the people who matter to me, Mr. Reese. The other day, when you were shot..." Harold closes his eyes. "I thought, 'What I wouldn't give to spare you from the next bullet headed your way.'"</p>
<p>Wincing and shaking his head, John says, "Harold..."</p>
<p>Harold looks up at him with sadness in his eyes. "Please don't tell me not to take care of you, John." Then, he sighs, and it briefly turns into a wince. "Mm. Let's not do this now. I'm very tired."</p>
<p>"Okay," John says, and Harold smiles.</p>
<p>"Good. I'm glad you're here. Thank you."</p>
<p>"You're welcome." John turns and kisses the center of Harold's palm. After spending so long with a ring on, Harold's hand looks bare without the gold band hanging out in John's pocket. "Can I put it back on?"</p>
<p>"For now," Harold replies, and John tries not to show his disappointment. Harold's expression softens. "It's not ours, John. It's not the right one. If I'm going to wear a ring after this, it's going to be the right one—unless you still want that...I'm not sure divorce is the right word, but I'm not sure the right one exists in any language, to be—"</p>
<p>"No," John interrupts. "I don't...I'm not sure I ever wanted it to be over. Not really." He pulls the ring from his pocket and slides it onto Harold's finger. "I don't want this to end. Us. I can't...I can't see myself with anyone else."</p>
<p>Harold's frown deepens. "Oh, John. You could meet—"</p>
<p>"No," John repeats, firmly. "I can't...there's no one else. No one better. Not better than you." Harold seems to get it then, his expression heart-wrenching and full of love. And John's no good at words, but Harold deserves an attempt. "If I can have the best—if the best somehow thinks I'm good enough—I'm not gonna give that up."</p>
<p>Harold bites his lip. "You are good enough." He strokes John's cheek, his touch tender and gentle. "You are beyond good enough. I wasn't lying when I said it would be an honor to be your husband. And I'll do my best to be worthy of you."</p>
<p>"You're not gonna have to try very hard," John says. Then, to set the world even more to rights, he takes out Harold's glasses and slips them onto Harold's face. "So, uh. I guess we're gonna be married without dating, then."</p>
<p>"Married without dating," Harold repeats. "Yes! No such thing as a risk-free life, I suppose."</p>
<p>"No," John agrees. "No such thing as a risk-free life." But it'll work out okay, he thinks. The Machine said so.</p><hr/>

<p></p><div class="machinetext">
  <p>EXECUTE RELATIONSHIP STATUS UPDATE? Y/N</p>
  <p>Y</p>
  <p>CONFIRMED. NEW STATUS: [REDACTED], HAROLD AND REESE, JOHN<br/>
- ROMANTICALLY INVOLVED<br/>
- MARRIED</p>
  <p>NO ERRORS UPDATING STATUS</p>
  <p>PRIMARY OBJECTIVE:<br/>
- IMPROVE ADMIN'S QUALITY OF LIFE<br/>
COMPLETE</p>
  <p>SECONDARY OBJECTIVE:<br/>
- IMPROVE PRIMARY ASSET REESE, JOHN'S QUALITY OF LIFE<br/>
COMPLETE</p>
  <p>TERMINATING ADVANCED COMPATIBILITY OPERATIONS</p>
  <p>OPERATION SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
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